The Boxer

The crowd roared like drunken lions,  

bloodlust on their tongues, cheap beer  

spilling down their laps, plastic cups cracking.

He stood there, fists like cinder blocks,  

his shadow too big for the smoky arena.  

The boxer's knuckles swayed storms,  

hurricanes packed into a single swing,  

his body a machine sculpted from brutality.

The blow landed—a cannon-fire,  

a sockdolager, as the old men called it.  

The air snapped. Teeth clenched.  

Flesh rippled but did not crumble.

His opponent, lean like a starving  

stray, just blinked. Picked at his mouth,  

as if swatting a fly, not a freight train.  

The crowd’s noise curdled in confusion.  

You could see it—the boxer’s frustration,  

a storm trapped behind his eyes,  

wondering where the wreckage was,  

why this man didn’t fall like the rest.

Victory didn’t live in punches tonight.  

It loitered somewhere near the lightbulbs,  

buzzing, unsure which soul to claim.