Monday, January 22, 2007


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.


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.


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.