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Counter Towards the Middle.

Counter Towards the Middle

   jab, cross, jab
   my fists hit the heavy bag
   right hook, left
   the sound fiat
   right, left hook
   as one hundred pounds of sand
   jab, slip, jab
   rotates to my rhythm.

   Afterward, alone
   muscles, joints, bone
   soak in the heat of a bath.

   The featherweight years
   without a father, filled
   with round after round
   of unemployment
   clinches with credit card
   payments, and knockdowns
   step up to a title match
   against lines in the grocery store
   pressed shirts, shadowboxing with forms
   for life insurance
   and with the fear
   that we are all forgettable
   that my hands so recently wrapped
   will disappear like the steam from skinned
   knuckles, vibrant, raw.
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Author:Lepczyk, Tim
Publication:Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2010
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