In a gym in Philadelphia, boys with street hungry eyes flick jabs at your moving brown frame in a circled ring of chance. Sweat hangs in the air like the sad truth of poverty, if they get pass you the smell of success is guaranteed. For the scared don't get rich. You made good, born the ******* of misfortune. Dreaming of riding past the old neighborhood in a custom Cadillac and meeting  beautiful long haired women with even white teeth. Maybe in your dreams, you saw boxing gloved foes falling by the score. But defeat and loss chased you down dead-end alleyways of lonely tears, and the walls of  your mind seemed about to collapse. As you ran under a sky of broken dreams and tossed  away chances with closed eyes afraid you were dying from large blows to the soul and body. A collection of years of being  poverty struck how many times have I seen you hanging over the ropes, eyes closed completely, wiped out like a voice lost in the rumbling of a subway train speeding past  tenements in Philadelphia.