The Boxer
When you step over the ropes, old hands
say you should be prepared to die.
A lifetime spent coming
to that moment…
jabbing,
bobbing,
weaving,
feinting,
clinching,
rope-a-dope in a pinch
absorbing all the blows,
the pretense that they never hurt,
eyes glaring the lie—
“Is that all you got?” with
arms flopped at your sides,
a heart about to burst, stomach
knotted in fear, legs that
want to turn traitor. Yet
you wobble on. Corner men
splash water on your face,
styptic and vaseline for the gashes,
a snort of ammonia, catch
your breath and out you go.
For, once down,
a count of ten
is all you get,
a blurry glimpse
into the fleeting void.