Sweat covers his body,
forms dark stains on
satin trunks,
a sheen on
red leather gloves.
Years of training
in stale smelling gyms
to fight.
He shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.
Sweat drips pink
over scarred eyelids
to taut canvas.
The beauty of his work
lost in its brutality.
Excellent poem. I think it is the best that I have read here.
ReplyDeleteRelative? He is a handsome young man.
Hi Joy. I got both your comments and clicked to publish them both. However, only one showed up. Others have reported trouble in posting comments on Blogger. I never know what they are doing. To answer your question from your other comment, "Yes, he was my great uncle."
ReplyDeleteWhen I read your comment again, I realized that both had published as one comment. We're good to go.
ReplyDelete