Sun, grayed by skylight dust,
falls on a makeshift ring,
a roped-off mat on a platform.
The air doesn’t move,
merely absorbs the years
of human sweat and breath
and cigarette smoke,
maybe even the grunt
of a landed blow.
The only sign of life
is a black teenager,
naked to the waist,
punching on a tattered bag.
He figures that someday
he’ll be champion of the world.
But for now, this is his world
and there are no other takers.
John Grey is a US resident Australian poet. Recently published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.
