where is that mythical second wind
when i'm working a heavy bag
fists and wrists, i think, are numb
but then again a dead dog
may give its tail one last wag
before nature updates its log

how am i supposed to win
when i'm slow-dancing
with an eighty year old woman
as my pouring sweat is ruining her dress
each punch is a kiss
meant to impress
a feeling of such magnificent force
that the gods would come down running
and then say "ah, yes, it's him, of course"

but instead the mirrors fog over
from my leaning stiff and lifeless corpse
and though the blood may still be flowing
the brain has long ago filed for divorce