My Prize Fighter

Holding tightly to the ropes

the girl and her pretty ways

that identical laugh

every time we agree to kiss.

I can’t wait to hold hands

in the center ring

we whisper private things.

She asks in a certain way

I can’t help but agree,

her beauty beats me down

it’s no use, really.

The girl is a prize fighter.

Ten or fifteen rounds

she’s always ready to go

deep in the corners

I can never escape

this thing I have with her.

Finally, the bell sounds

I watch her wash her face

the same repeated habits,

I’m always wide eyed in awe.

Lying exhausted on the canvas

it’s a split decision.

She turns over on elbows

“Are you ready to go again?”

The girl is a prize fighter

she’ll go through me

to get to the belt.

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