Boxer

Prose

Round nine, it’s
my time. Sweat
dripping out, fatigue
kicking in but still
gloves up and on,
laced with love.
Against all odds I
am going to win.
My love of glove
speaks for itself;
Lefty right, righty left
I swerve lightly about
to fall. Haters grin with
joy. I refuse their ploy

Quitters never win;
Back on my feet
I landed a mean double
coupled with an upper
and a shimmy on Jimmy.
Haters enraged with fury.
Fire be an understatement
to say; but an inferno
set ablaze within have me
throwing fists madly just
to see the look on their faces

To be continued

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