Blur

(Another day, another round)

The core the tender-spot, opened
like the broken face of an old fighter.
After sustaining his blows from the fury
— knee-kicks, head-butts, brass-knuckle fists
the old guy will strain for balance, struggling for any angle.
Mere weight of a flood of his tiny tears, suddenly
will cause the man to list, planting him on an ear or face-first.
Even a series of sobbing quiet hitched sighs
will stagger him, buckle his resolve...

Round/day one — in the corner, flat on his old arse

Round/day two — in the corner, up (swaying mightily)

Round/day three — his arse again

Days four, five, six, seven and on
your guess as good as mine, but he sees you there
in your corner and is still mightily interested
to bloody bury you, sonny, with one sweet uppercut and hook

and roll you over (smothering you
with split-lip broken-tooth kisses)

© Larry Nightingale