The Win
Stale yellow fumed long cones of light,
bare down upon untitled fight.
Bruisers bake under grease pencil bets,
weight class pummels out all regrets.
Bell dings and brings them to ring’s apron,
team's chief shaking eyes of closest patron.
Cold towel wrung red in icy bowl,
laps at their blood playing its role.
One fighter wears split apple sized eye,
the other sweats a win in by and by.
They arise panting and ref's hand stops,
old blood brown stains see fresh red drops.
Ref's hand up and bell brands the ears,
one bruiser turns pugilist jabbing spears.
An unplanned right hook shakes a jaw,
unswollen face slackens and eyes thaw.
Closest patron rages at turned event,
winnings foiled and underworld deal rent.
Arms high and his bloody smile a smite,
one eyed pugilist wins his final fight.
EaS
No comments:
Post a Comment