for your boxing challenge.
I prepped
by eating fajitas
and drinking
sugary margaritas.
Filled with confidence,
youth, and no skill
whatsoever.
When signing the barman's waiver
you declined headgear
naively I followed suit.
Despite my advantage
of height, weight, reach,
and an inflated
sense of justice
I was out matched.
Your only target
was my head
which your arms
like pistons
pummeled.
The fight's duration
was one minute
twelve seconds.
You kicked my ass.
I cried uncle
before the first round bell
had even rung.
My friends swept me
up and out.
On the street
I puked.
As if to crystallize my defeat.
Sometimes
I'll think of flying to New York City
with a pair of boxing gloves.
To find you. Dan.
And demand a rematch.
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