I once was apprenticed to a prizefighter.
My life, demarcate, in a finite blur.
By a box of terms, I was obliged to serve
inside a box, behind the curve,
in a corner marked by anger, a term of discord
in a match of no match and no record to record.
My contender was a boxer, containment, his art.
With the ring, I was boxed in by my counterpart.
Attack was his defense, fisticuffs his sport.
To strike out at this contract binding
could not weaken the agreement’s finding.
Nor could it lessen the quantity
or length of time to disagree.
In an embroilment of pugilism
bound by walls of altruism,
I was sequestered to remain
with no prize fighting prize to gain.
With no desire for clenched fists
to box or cuff, but to desist.
To open the box takes an open hand
an open mind and a brave heart to stand
on two feet and walk out
before the final blow and life’s knockout.
WoPoLi 
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