Richard Faircloth

She’s a Lot Better Than Me…

… and I knew that.
“christ!”
so why did I climb into the ring with her?
“really?!”
and why is the bar always jumping
when you’re getting your ass whupped, gloves off,
“… the hell were you thinking?”
by the sexiest woman?
“don’t you ever think?”
not deeply enough…
“god damn you!”
that’s a righteous right hook…
“you are such a…”
and a stinging jab…
“I should cut your…”
below the belt, but the ref doesn’t call it,
just pours me another shot
“… can’t believe…”
that smells like guilt,
“… back of my truck – my truck… ”
and tastes like eighty-proof stupidity,
“… my own fucking sister??!”

(also known as my boss’s wife…)

my corner man slaps another beer on the bar,
trying to stanch those cuts, but
“ass-hole!”
the bell rings too soon,
“fucking pig!”
and the next punch
“mother-fucking liar!”
really connects.
god, she’s beautiful.
she telegraphs the next combination,
but I’m too proud to duck:

“fuck …
(full wind-up bitch-slap)
… you!!”

and the fight’s over –
I hit the floor,
she hits the door,
and the crowd goes wild.