it's not over

i've been on the canvas
before, so this is nothing
new, to be lying here in
a heap of woozy slumber,
tasting the blood
inside my mouth,
as the knot on my head
and over my eye throb
like a barking dog.
i see you over there out
of my one good eye, leaning
in your neutral corner, that
smirk on your pretty face.
i can hear a freight train
running in my swollen ears
and it can't get out
of the station.
my kidneys ache from
the solid strikes of fists,
my shoulders are sore from
covering up those wild
swings, those uppercuts
you love to throw. but
i'm not out, not yet. this
is just a standing eight
count. the bell will ring
and save me, i'll get up,
hanging onto the ropes,
go to my corner to clean
up the blood, get some
water and spit, take a whiff
of smelling salts and i'll
be back. i've got at least
another round with you yet.
hell, i'm gonna dance the next
three rounds you'll see.
pick you up at eight.