A Moment Poem by Peter Keeble

A MOMENT

Hunched on the three-legged stool
like a naughty child in the corner,
trainer flapping small towel
in the distant hope of reviving hope.
Cut on the right eyebrow -
cruel sting of alum -
he hears the crowd's roar ebb and flow
and sees the canvas spinning, too bright.
His flopped arms, useless weights;
bruises where he was trapped against the ropes.

Heat. Lights. Shame.
What can make him rise again?

He feels the new tie rubbing at his neck
and shuffles shyly to the teacher's desk.
"I'm very sorry sir but what is this you wrote? "
pushing forward the first page of his clean book,
red ink sentence scrawled under his best writing.
A pause.
A strange look.
The teacher points his pen towards the red
"It says, " he says, "that I can't read your writing."

Seconds later, seconds out,
bell ringing for the final round:
red-faced he rises from his corner,
fists singing in their gloves.