Speed Bag

Freckled flesh peeks out of

black fabric, the ends loose –

I’m a rookie wrapper.

I love this stop, trace my

nearness toward it with every

shrill beep. I stand, the bag

a pear before me. My mouth

has to be slack; it’s my stance.

I graze the bag:

one-two-three

hit

one-two-three

hit.

Two left, two right.

He said it’s all about rhythm

and I settle into mine

as the day evaporates,

steam fogging up the mirrors.

NaBloPoMo November 2015

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