Monday, January 22, 2007

pugilism

In attempt to figure out what to write for my 1800 word narrative autobiography, I've been reading through old poems. Ok, it's procrastination. But here's a ditty I wrote over a year ago, maybe a year and a half.


Pugilist

By the 7th round, the point scores knew that he'd already lost

Hopkins rose up from that battering glove

locked his chin, jumped his shoulders

and struck down Taylor with a might

that suddenly remembered the sound of his own name.

A fighter with lead pipes for bones:

he’d mumbled 40 years on the sugar coated ribs of men

who could count their loses on one unwrapped hand.


You insisted it wasn’t a comeback:

He lost a title he's held for the longest in middle weight history.

He knew it was over, it just wasn’t going to end like that.


When I kissed you that night

My shoulders shook.

I couldn't love like exposure.

Even when we sparred, you know I don't block.

You told me the flaw of my stance was leaving my face open.

I couldn't take my eyes off you, even when I could see what was coming.


I can tell you finally,

What I have learned from happiness,

is so much less than all that I know.


2 comments:

MS said...

why aren't you doing this all the time again?

Rachel said...

I have much less to complain about with my new love... besides, I'm a better painter.

I promise.