The tattered tendons
in rusted shoulders creek protest
flinch sieze and object
to the tat tat tat pound
I’ve wrought on sand and leather
The old bags set too low
and threatens to collapse
rattling the plasterboard wall
in a sham war dance
Tonight he wears the mask
of his tormentor
and each low swung jab
and sneak snuck upper cut
have hit their mark
Each swing a dizzy step
to the rough and tumble
of the glove and leather ball
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