Text by LittleWing

==

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.

==

MattConley (Community Director) writes:

I loved the imagery that the words of this story created - it was undoubtedly gritty imagery, I might add.  I’d love to hear voice overs of this.

Recording multiple takes would probably be a good idea considering this could be read and paced in so many different ways.