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.
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Comments6
much enjoyed, very good write
Thank You Norman
most welcome
Such a wonderful picture set in images of the pugilist. Could there be metaphor here or is it just poetic painting of an instant in time. Well done my friend
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
Brilliantly written 👏
Your descriptions are so unique "lean like a starving stray" being one of my favourites.
I very much enjoyed reading this piece.
- Syd 🍄
Great. The crowd I'd vote for as the biggest bunch of.... at one with those clapped out cheaply manufactured lightbulbs...
Thank You Dave
When they can take a punch, they can usually punch to match.
Something tells me there wasn't a second punch.
"fists like cinder blocks"
What a line. It reminds me of a poem I wrote about Rocky Marciano. My father was am amateur boxer. I really enjoyed this.
Thank you for sharing your feedback
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