The Boxer of Quirinal

That ol' Greek beat boxer,
Sad eyed, bearded, and bleeding,
The swollen bones of his cracked brow,
Now defeated,
Bruised

(Long lost are the years
Of his idealized youth)

Busted, and Rusted
Weak with green, oxidized bronze skin
From past pumelings,
He looks back over his shoulder toward the champ
And sighs a quiet sigh
which only he himself hears

And now he sits, arms slumped on his thighs,
Cestus weighing down his broken knuckles
Like ocean anchors

But still, he doesn’t cry

Still, still, still,
he doesn't cry.
That old Greek Beat boxer,
He still doesn't cry.