The referee stopped the
fight in the final clicks
of the second round after
he was barely touched by
half a dozen or so exhausted,
desperate jabs. If the fight
had continued to the third
round, his battered opponent,
whose nose he'd already
broken in three different
places at the beginning of
the round, with several
stiff intent flurries; wouldn't
have risen for the bell.
Sliding on skates, barely
coherent, when the TKO was
tentatively announced to
the small roaring crowd. He
took the loss with a gracious
smile, fully coherent,
gesturing the rowdy incensed
crowd to please calm
down. Knowing for every
great winner, there needs to
be an even greater loser.
The winner whining for hours
after to an exhausted
indifferent middle-aged male
doctor, at a hellishly
congested hospital. While
he pleasurably gulped
from a never-ending bottle
of heavenly Tennessee
whiskey. Wolfing thick perfect
lines off the pert, golden
breasts, of a young, beautiful hooker.
Certain he would live forever.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.
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