the eight count

some mornings it's
not unlike getting up from
the eight count.
woozy,
on bent knee rising
from the canvas
to go at it again.
gloves heavy in my hands.
stopping the bleeding,
putting ice
on the bruises,
trying to remember
to keep my guard up,
to jab and step,
jab and step, don't get
caught
with the right hook.
holding on, holding on,
looking at the clock,
waiting for
the bell to ring
to end the round.
it's almost Friday.