The Contender Poem by James McLain

Gloves fit most hands,
except the hand with six fingers.
Six figures, twelve gloves, one hand.
The ring of fire, demands a cool and measured
hand given to exoneration.
It blesses the eye that swells, that bleeds for nought,
that frees the mind to sleep.
The glove, will be tied around the hand, with such care
with a preciseness that wakes the hand to heroic deeds.
The dance of sinewy perfection, where sweat, the salt of
two hearts,
deflects perception from the start, as the tounge of the
apron runs in streams of watered pinks, never in blood.
Chairs gripp soft eyes,
beholding, folded upon inside to gripp,
as connoisseurs of rare wine
are splashed, watching.
Washing the minds as selves move about in set perceptions
held unsure as the hand with a glove to loose finds the mat, to
share with the one, the only contender, inside the glove.