Out On Your Feet

You have just taken the umpteenth blow to whatever cheekbones you have left. Your nose now is an orphaned limb that hangs from bloody snot and gristle. Your teeth are shards of broken glass between the ridges of your gums. Your mind is pig-shit, scrambled eggs, and your thoughts are the intervals in the longest count since Dempsey stood over Tunney in Soldier Field. And yet you still stand there and smile at the birth and death of sudden stars, an afterlife so imminent, hoping the ref won't stop the fight.