Sweat covers his body,
forms dark stains on
satin trunks,
a sheen on
red leather gloves.
Years of training
in stale smelling gyms
prepare him for
fights that
test his foundation.
He shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.
Sweat drips pink
over scarred eyelids
to taut canvas.
He draws from a well
deep inside,
where more than sweat flows.
Dennis Price
Great Pugilist Poetry.
ReplyDeleteNot many poets writing it these days.
ReplyDelete