Boxer

As it’s Black History Month, I’ve been reading African-American poetry. Someday I’d like to properly, and respectfully, learn to write with their perspective This is one attempt.
Of course, the main character here need not be black, nor Whitey white.
The frustration of being held down by some ‘Boss’ is universal.


 Boxer

On his right hand,
  His gym championship boxing ring,
As out of date as his worn club boxing gloves,
  On his left, his wedding band

Working the speed bag, he knew his force by
  It’s bounces off the ring mount,
Bap bup-bup, twice
Bap bup-bup, bup, three, harder

He thinks of Whitey and all he’s done,
  He brought him over on a boat,
He thinks of all the fights he’s won,
  Never once had his day in the sun

Bap bup-bup-bup-bup, four, five, nine, twelve
  He’s feeling oiled, tight and mean,
His roundhouse brings it to thirteen

Home later,
The Boxer sees that Whitey’s on,
  And punches out the TV screen,
Some broken glass, cuts on the hand,
  No matter

For tomorrow, Ol’ Whitey will surely be seen
  With a shiner on the eye, and on his forehead
A mark, a dent, the reverse imprint 
  Of an old boxer’s club signet ring