Pugilist

image borrowed from bing

Pugilist

Bruno started boxing

when he was eight years old,

the red leather gloves huge on his small fists,

and he loved it.

His

   father

        hung

             up

               the

                 heavy

                       bag

                            in

                              the

                                  garage,

with the speed bag by the door.

                                              He

                                    punched

                                        deep

                                       into

                                     the

                             sinews

                                  of

                              that

                    massive

                  canvas

                bag,

his head barely touching its midriff.

He had to stand on an apple box

to swat the speedo,

slapping it into a blur,

fast and hard, nearly

tearing it off its springs.

He and the big bag became intimate,

his jabs snapping sharp into the sweaty folds

of the faceless porous partner,

his uppercuts pummeling every stitch,

smacking the stuffing loudly, thudding

as his terrible right and left hooks

tore at the texture of bag and glove,

training like his life depended on it,

night and day the grunting

and pounding rang out clarion

from the rough hewn garage gym.

Then his father bought him 

some free weights,

a sit up board and press bench.

The young man’s muscles rippled with joy,

growing, thickening, pumping up.

First featherweight

then lightweight,

then middleweight

becoming a strong light heavy,

battling his way up through the rings at

the Boys Club, YMCA, high school, then college. 

He fought like a physicist,

never with blood lust,

mostly knocking his opponents down

and winning by points,

but several times the adversaries

stayed down for the knockout call

rather than face his fists again;

but he was proud to be a boxer,

not a mauler,

not a braggart,

never arrogant or mean;

he did not hate the men he faced,

he just loved to box;

there were a few times he fought to a draw

hardly recognizing his own swollen features

in the mirror the next morning.

He really only lost once,

to a Hispanic

who failed to acknowledge pain,

who fought in the streets daily

without gloves;

somehow this had enraged Bruno

and he had unleashed punches

that broke ribs and bruised bone,

leaving the other man covered in blood,

yet the fighter battled like a bull dog

and refused to go down,

winning by points.

Bruno never was the same after that,

as the youthful joy was replaced

with sadness, and the mindless behemoths

he faced began to break apart his dreams,

punching beyond his body, injuring his soul,

until he rose one hot August morning

and he embraced his epiphany,

listening at last to his higher self:

“Fight no more forever, for you are worthy of something finer.”

Somehow he found the strength to walk away,

setting aside who he had been,

putting away his gloves, trophies, headgear,

allowing the rope burns to heal,

saying adieu to the ring, to the crowds, 

letting the heavy bag hang dry, kissed by dust,

forcing the speed bag into silence,

as he unclenched his fists

and became a scholar, a lover, a poet

and a father himself, who only pulled

out his scrapbook of press clippings

when begged to do so by his three sons.

Glenn Buttkus

August 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

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