Fighter. Poem by Neil Gray

If I can pick myself
up off the floor
this time

I'll be surprised.

If I can find another
reason to drag
my carcuss off the canvass

maybe I'll finish the round.

Spent most of this one
on the ropes,
bobbing, weaving,
leaning back at an angle
that Ali himself would've
been proud of.

Each blow
wearing me out
as much as it did
them.

Each pounding
on my ribs
defended with
a rabid intensity.

And I can hear
the voice inside
urging me:

'Just make it too
the end of the round
kiddo...........

Just too the end of the round'

Perhaps I could make it.

One small victory
for the singular self.

The right-hook that
blindsided me was,
too say the lest,
unexpected.

As I stood at the bar
watching her play goo-goo eyes
with some town dressed schmuck
I could feel the blood run down my face
and hear the ref count
to 10.

T.K.O.