The First Round
You are a pothole that I swerve not to hit.
But you follow my trail endlessly and the sniffing.
When I am cornered I lash and teeth bare menacingly.
We circle each other looking for an opening and claw.
The words make me bleed but ignoring the pain.
The Second Round
Hurling insults and curses the fight searches our past.
I am knocked down from a memory and slowly gain my feet.
I throw a cross at your fears and you stagger with pain.
The referee gives you a standing eight count and the bell sounds.
We sit in our corners and take water and advice.
The Third Round
The crowd roars as we touch gloves and you give me a hook to the body.
I am cut and its deep but the doctor examines me and says I can go on.
The hook brings deep shame and I can't breath and holding the ropes.
My corner knows I can't go on so a white towel comes.
The referee stops the fight and we pay him when we leave.
The next couple are in the lobby sitting waiting for the doctor.