fifteen rounds

love is fifteen rounds.
not one
not two.
it's the full match
between the ropes.
each bell
a day,
a year, another swing
at one another,
another duck,
miss.
hit.
I look out into
the crowd as I take
the standing eight,

then go to my stool
for water and advice,
they clean up the cuts.
between rounds,
I spit blood into the metal
bucket.

i see the faces
out there,
covering their eyes
some I know
who wish i'd just quit
the game
cut off the gloves
and take up
a saner line of love.