Fight Prize

I went and made a special punch for Jab on Boxing Day,
but Jab put on his Boxer socks and went his merry way.
So I was left to pull that special drink I made for lunch,
and celebrate my Boxing Day with no one there to punch.

Joe Boxer socks and white Reeboks defined the one named Jab,
but conscious panged him deep inside and thus he felt a stab.
So he returned to celebrate said Boxing Day with me,
by poking ‘round my kitchenette to see what he could see.

I welcomed Jab with open arms within my humble hut,
but had to duck when Jab released a vicious uppercut.
He looked chagrined and offered up apology toot sweet,
then like a butterfly he danced about on flutter feet.

I put the punch back out for Jab so he could have a drink,
but like a clumsy fisticuff he fell into the sink.
He tussled with the stainless steel and rope-a-doped the drain,
and as to celebration it was fighter-right refrain.

I got into the swing with Jab to celebrate all right,
surprised that in my kitchenette I’d entertain a fight.
With jabbing jocularity enjoining Jab and I,
we boxed along the countertop not really knowing why.

Jab piped up with adjoining curiosity and fret,
his breath this side of rusty nails, his lips saliva wet:
“I could not let you celebrate this Boxing Day alone,
  or punch yourself so silly you would trip the great unknown!”

Then I with pungent punch upon my lips in second thought,
mused maybe Boxing Day was not the pugilistic lot.
I pulled my punch and said to Jab as he began to swing:
“Hey, maybe Boxing Day is thus a well-intentioned thing.”

Jab swung around with startled eyes and nudged the punch-filled glass;
(I smelled the scent of bacon that in Jab was breakfast past.)
Those fists of fury swiping air was fighting Jab in force,
a fighter with no sparring partner on pugnacious course.

Then stopping suddenly from swinging, Jab gave me a look;
a countenance in pure reversal--he was open book.
And laughing with the air of swift contention duly spent,
both Jab and I agreed we had assumed the wrong intent.

Determined fighters over punch not understanding much;
a jubilee for Boxing Day with more than just a touch.
But then a dawning on the heart, the will to love and live:
‘tis better to unclench those fists, and find the will to give.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
12-27-14