The Fighter

Painting by Rick Mobbs
Dedicated to Jason Bruno


The Fighter

Jason Bruno started boxing
when he was eight years old,
his red gloves huge
on his small fists,
and he really liked it.
Dad hung up a heavy bag
in the garage,
with a speed bag
by the door.

Jason punched deep
into the sinews
of the heavy bag,
his head barely touching
its midriff,
and he had to stand on an apple box
to swat the speedo;
but he was game
and he hit hard.

His jabs snapped sharp
into the sweaty canvas;
his upper cuts pummeled
the folds and stitches,
smacking the stuffing loudly;
his right and left hooks
tore at the texture
of both glove and bag;
his punching rhythms on the speed bag
created a blur,
nearly tearing it off its springs.

The kid trained
like his life depended on it,
night and day,
grunting and pounding cascading
from the garage gym
as the years passed.
Dad gave him free weights,
and a sit up board; the kid’s
muscles rippled with joy,
pumping up, growing, thickening,
begging his father to punch him in the stomach
to strengthen his abs.
First lightweight,
then middleweight,
then a powerful light heavy,
Jason battled his way
through the rings at
the Boy’s Club,
the YMCA,
the high school,
then college.

Mostly he knocked his opponents down,
winning by points,
for he was a boxer,
not a mauler;
he did not hate,
he just liked to fight.
A few times he fought
to a draw,
swallowing his own blood,
not recognizing his own swollen face
in the mirror some mornings.
He only really lost once,
to a Mexican
who failed to acknowledge pain,
who fought at home daily
without gloves.

But one day
with the sizzling sunrise
came a golden epiphany,
as his soul and body said
battle no more;
he became a father himself,
a scholar,
a poet, a lover, an artist--
so he set aside pugilism,
put away his gloves and headguard,
letting the heavy bag hang dry,
kissed by dust,
forcing the speed bag into silence,
as he unclenched his fists.

Glenn A. Buttkus September 2008