Sketch of Boxing

Steam rises from the bath water
circulates in down drafts
a localized weather pattern
in my unheated apartment
and steam  also rises
from my skin, the hands
recently wrapped and sheathed
in synthetic leather boxing gloves
the wet knuckles are red, wrinkles vibrant
as blood surges to the surface
trauma on a cellular scale as tiny vessels
and capillaries rupture, burst
like my fists against the heavy bag
one hundred pounds of sand chained
from floor to rafters, rotating
to the rhythm of my punches
with a sound that pounds flat
jab, cross, jab.

Click here to see the first revision of this poem. 
Or check out the third revision.

Leave a Reply

  • (will not be published)