In the ring,
I’m sweating,
that feeling
of sudden searing
white-hot clarity.
Its accuracy reassuring
my blows,
focusing,
determining,
stuffing with passion
as I delve into the wells
of your mind
from across the field
to turn the tides - make you a loser
more so than I want
to deem myself a winner.
Achieving victory is out of reach,
but I have my eyes fixed on the prize.
“Where did she go wrong?”
They would say.
It won’t be long,
now. Soon I will have my way.
Wipe away the sweat
of my efforts
did my coach,
off my brow.
Heal the wounds
in the heat
did he again,
for another round.
Now I'm ready to fight.
But the coolness of my skin
and brief relief of ache
was enough to ask:
“What’s it really worth to win?
And am I a man
who is worthy?”
Better to let the judges decide.