The Boxer Poem by Heath Gunn

He prowls and stalks towards his prey,
Out from his dressing room.
The buzz of the auditorium,
Is just beyond the gloom.
The smell of sweat and leather,
His hands are bound so tight.
And this is the thing he does best,
For he was born to fight.
Steps out to his music,
The crowd they cheer so loud.
And on the way down to the ring,
He’s floating on a cloud.
His eyes are steely focused,
His concentration set.
Whilst all the day the odds have changed,
Upon a knockout bet.
He gloves the top rope, springing up,
Flipping up and over.
His trademark done, he nods and waves,
To those seated under cover.
Walking to his corner,
Shaking out his muscles.
A few words from his trainer will,
Prepare him for his tousles.

Standing with the referee,
He stares out his opponent.
Running through opening in his mind,
The hook and jab components.
Returning to the red corner,
He awaits the opening bell.
Then flies out to control the ring,
With guard raised, he brings hell.
A jab, a jab, and then two more,
They pound through to their target.
His foes head jerks sharply back,
As through his guard bombs he lets.
On clean white boots, a spot of blood,
Drips from opponents face.
A cut above the eye has split,
As not one punch he wastes.
Double jab, to gloves of red,
A right-cross powers through.
And then the bell rings, ends round one,
A short break, then round two.
Round two and three, and then four more,
They’re soon into round seven.
His shoulders sore, and breathing raw,
Conditioned to give in, never.
The two men stand, now toe to toe,
Exchanging countless stinging blows.
Pain shoots through opponents eyes,
As to the ribs he goes.
Standing in his shorts of blue,
His foe is clad in red.
The foe’s guard drops, as blows rain in,
To body and to head.
He senses adversary weakening,
And ups his own work rate.
Looking for the knockout blow,
Like a bull charging a gate.
A hook, a jab, an upper-cut,
The man in red drops down.
Lays twitching on the canvas,
As referee gathers round.
Seven eight, it takes so long,
For the ref to count to ten.
He’s dancing round, guard still raised,
Will he have to fight again?
His focus is upon his foe,
Who’s starting to come round.
But it’s too late, as ten is reached,
And a cheer screams from the crowd.

Victorious he raises arms,
His head and muscles sore.
But buzzing, now elated feels,
That he could go some more.
He wraps his arms around the neck,
Of trainer who’s so proud.
Then heads across to check and see,
Opponent who’s sat down.
The man in red stands from his stool,
Congratulates the victor.
They exchange words, now friends not foes,
A completely different picture.
The M.C announces his name,
Ref holds up his arm.
The belt he’s won around his waist,
His face shows marks of harm.

Now one week on, the crowd has gone,
He runs the street alone.
Training hard for his next fight,
Like a dog chasing a bone.
For the fighter’s life is long hard slog,
Of hours spent in gym.
Sparing, running, working out,
All to protect his chin.

Heath Gunn