57

He sits hunched up smoking
A cigarette on a small stool
Ringside while the boys
Spar, watching from under
Low thatched eyebrows and
Thick bunched lids as they
Circle and jab in the pale
Light of the gymnasium
And their skinny movements
As they duck and hack at
One another and balance
On the balls of their feet
And the livid marks showing
Out on their cheeks as if
They had become ashamed
Of their tentative blows
And the light of soft anger
In their eyes. He taps off
The hanging ash into the
Lip of an empty Coca-cola
Can and strokes at its
Edge the ash away and he
Brings it slowly up and tokes
And a little gout of fire
Races across the quarters of
His aged face and the gym
Resonates with dull footfall.