He started running in Baton Rouge as a teen.
He is still running, ever south.
Sweat drips, his feet pound.
He’ll take some light swings, punching out humidity and wind.
He’s 40 now, and the ringing he hears is other than his phone…
Few calls, fewer yet from promoters and trainers…
He turns it up, parched ground blurs, breathing pounds hard then harder.
He sometimes runs onto the hot black asphalt.
Swinging, punching, pure awareness, a singularity of deadly intention
Focused only for the great fight
That will win for him money, respect;
Will delete the failures and the lost wife
The friends that were really just after all just entourage and baggage
The past will all disappear in the great white light
Of the Champion
His belt lifted high as the sky.
No calls…just streaming whispers, wrappings of doubt:
“Death, death is knocking on my door, no calls, no fights,
Death knocking.”
Still he runs, trains, dreams only for the ring
Will succumb only to it’s final bell
