Been thinking about time. Time is terrifying.
The Pugilist (a sonnet)
Time is rough. He doesn’t stop to check
The damage done. The freshly opened wounds
That scar. And heal again. Hooray. The flesh
Is canvas for his scalpel. Surgeon smooth
White smiles that hide naivety. The punch
Is all he really knows. The violent stab
That bruises. But include a knife… and touch
The skin apart. Dissolve, like watered scabs.
Too talented to stop. A pugilist
Who never misses. Jab and jab and jab…
He bludgeons with a slicing, scything fist
Of baby-desperation. Don’t be sad
About your inability to test
Him. Hopefully you’ll cope. And then you’ll rest.