Jab Poem by Ernest Hilbert

I'm in the chair. Henry nimbly skims my cheek,
Like a sculptor, with an open razor.
He whispers, "See that guy, there, in the sleek
Suit, real nice, with all the rings, in Pete's chair?
He's a big boxing promoter. He owns ten
Fighters." I slowly scan the Daily News.
"He doesn't own them, " I counter. "They're free men."
"Ah, sure he does. Ask Jimmy. He knows."

They lean to hear stories and stats, best bets,
Brazilians on the way up, weights and ages,
Promotions and percs a good fighter gets,
Big prizes, payouts, no thought of wages,
Objects of rumor from Philly and Cleveland,
Kept like big cats, cherished, giants from Ukraine,
Prospects pegged, from Peru and England,
Sparring to get back fees advanced in pain.