I protected him. I wrapped his fists in tape and put boxing gloves over his hands. Then I tied them up tightly and secure. The look in his eyes told we were brothers. He went down in the third round. For years I trained him. Got him fights. Now he was old. He went down in the third round. He got up, slowly. First on one knee. Then he grabbed my arm and I lifted him steady. He was my brother. Now he's dead. They called from the coast. They said another punch drunk fighter went down without life in his veins. It'd been years since the third round. But only days since life left his veins.
Poetry Pantry #367
1 day ago