Boxer
I wasn't born with long, elegant God-limbs.
To race across the flowered plains of heaven.
I was conceived from the hammer and anvil
of a gray-witted, quick-to-anger blacksmith.
My shoulders will never feel a spray of red roses.
My only friend will be a bucket of secondhand oats.
No soft palms will stroke my dull-matted flanks.
Only whips of attrition to hold me to this lowly rank.
I'll spend a lifetime plowing uphill and moving stone.
Loyal to a fault at the expense of my soul-bones.
When my days are sprinkled over with ice and snow.
When my back is beyond bent and ribs start to show.
There'll be no tears-accolades or sweet eulogies.
Only harsh words and sharp tug into the darkness.
And a long bumpy jaunt to the glue factory.
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