TKO

i’m seeing things that aren't really there

as the sweat drips through

a cold crows foot of creases

that wither at the side of my eyes

the creases are caught and then fade

between my temple and upper cheek

i mouth old tired utterances of response

yet no words do i speak

the rest of my face is but a twisted mask

i conspire like a weasel with noises inside

ignoring all but the essence of need

requiring only a motionless slide

a wave of extra sensory imperfections

a mirage of polite and pointless smiles

stranger than fictional token gestures

a taste of both the road and the miles

Ref called the fight forty seven seconds into the third round. My right eye was bruised and swollen shut. The cut on the bridge of my nose was pissing blood. An uppercut I caught In the dying seconds of the first round hit me that hard I bit through my mouth guard and broke a molar.

Ding ding ding