Ring Rust Poem by Charles Malcolm

Ring Rust



I sit here on a wobbly stool
between rounds
with nothing left.
All of the advice is muffled
from my chief second
as he empties a bottle
into my mouth
and down the front of my shorts.
Cut man smashes a cold press
against my open wounds.
No vision.
No breath.
No legs.
Nothing left.
Somebody shoves the mouth guard
back in.
Ref clears my corner.
I stand.
I stumble back to the center
of the ring.
Some tomato can,
I think,
as my left glove taps hers.
The bell rings
and we enter the championship rounds.

This one won't see
the scorecards.

Saturday, May 23, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: love
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Allotey Abossey 23 May 2015

No vision. No breath. No legs. Nothing left... Love the rhythm God bless you

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