Growing up my father owned his own business. Midwestern hopes and myths were calculated And saved for a Greyhound Bus Only to be circumvented by someone else's copper pipes, and linoleum floors. Only to be released like Salt in sweat only found on blue collars. Released from the body with The intention of the best with the warmth of safety. Yet yielding the residue reminding men that Sweat is two colors away from A life necessity lost in an effort to recover wounds. Broken sleep is genetic. Given by intuition as a way to Feel love as it walks in late. Again. ESPN flashes images to 2 pairs of the same dark brown eyes. Holding modern day gladiators that Battle for applause from those Watching for one more bruise. I always thought my squeezes held Myself to locked arms and Secured Honest Principles after every jab, Every bruise, Every shuffle. But it's his grasp to matte black hair, Calloused feet, And missing front teeth, That pulsed and contracted After every hit. Only late-night boxing can linger In memories of unions paused work For raining days. Only there Do sweat-slicked bodies hold out For a blue-collar One more Left-hook.