Her Friends And Other Forgotten Boxers Poem by Grant Tarbard

Here’s to her friends
and other forgotten boxers,
their eyebrows arched down
through steely black and white photos
hanging like links of black pudding
in the local butchers.
Here’s to her friend
fading like a sunflower,
darling of the smashed crowd
and mascot of the till-smiths.
Here’s to her;
the Friend,
the one who knows me
before I know myself.
Puffed out cheeks
of exertion
over sloppy, chewed meal words
spat from the orchard,
oh this Friend
the one who knows me
simply by sense of smell-
“Have a drink? ! What you? ”
A jab to the belly
and a quick wink to the room
echoes with an ill-hid pleasure
through those endless corridors
of a dead hotel mind,
peeling paper thoughts
rattling bells
and peering under bed clothes
to announce herself
for the third time tonight.
We drag, eyes right
the urgent look preened
from the painted dressage pony
counting down rounds with a hoof,
her voice like a gale
punching through
the cracks in the door frame;
splinters, flakes of paint
hitting above their weight,
that morning Foreman’s cannonade
unsettling heavy bag and man alike.
My eye raw
steak red
from a cheap shot
and here I’m sat
in a night spot
of storyless longevity,
yes; here’s to her friends.