Blood Sport
Unlikely opponents
with boxing gloves duct-taped
to their wrists resting between
rounds in their respective corners.
Sweat dripping.
Thank God for the safety cones
so they don't hurt themselves.
Me, the referee, stripes and a whistle.
(I hate this game.)
No one responds when I blow.
The count is at 3.
They both stagger up, circling
each other one more time.
April 16, 2016
prompt: serious or
silly poem
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