Well, I was getting ready for a fight. I wrapped my hands with white cloth tape. In my small room I stood on a rug threadbare and torn and shadow boxed against a cracked dusty mirror. I bobbed and weaved, but the mirror saw me as something funny; see it was warped, just like me. No matter, empty punches came from my clenched hands. My rhythm was off, my timing slow in the stale apartment air. It was 3am, and I was getting ready for a fight. Somewhere I knew an opponent would be doing the same. I wondered if he was warped and scared like me, or if he knew my name.
LIFE OF A POET - JOHN BUCHANAN
4 hours ago