I Need A Fighter To Go In For Me

Another day the alarm goes off, lifting her tired, swollen eyes from the soft pillow, now a bit hard from, yet, another night of crying herself to sleep, the aches and pains of shoulders, a neck that feels like a nail has been driven down the center, greets her morning’s light of the intended gift of another day. She has to climb out of the warm lonely bed to set an aching foot onto the cold cruel floor, a tired sort of stiffness granted from the long hours of late last night, yet another second job trying desperately to make but the fraction of what she needs, just to care for the bills looming on the counter in the other room. If it was only her, she might just roll back and call it quits; but for those young lives sleeping so peacefully in their beds, her work, a must, no, a practicality, to maybe give them just a better chance, an earlier try than she ever had; a good breakfast, a good start. She must work for her darling children before and long after carting them off to school.

Fights can last so long when you are knee-deep in them, wallowing through the savage pangs of battle, the muck seems to pull on your feet, its cruel claws ever pulling you down. These long, seemingly endless stretches of endurance, nothing short of a marathon at times create an unending trek of long distances lingering before us, lengthened strides that seem unreachable, they can sometimes result in more of a “just one foot in front of another” mentality, until, hopefully, the final circle in the stadium is realized. How grueling is this tedious step after step, blow after counter blow, punch after counter block, with its own deceptive occasional slap to the side of the head. Oh, how we try so desperately at times to wage but a good presentation, a practice sortie, hoping for but a miraculous one-punch knock-out! The fighter sits and ponders the fight, and his life of pain between rounds.

Climbing into the cold waking water splashing in its warm relief across her face, how sweet is the fresh clean tingle, the fresh taste of purity as it touches thirsty lips with a strangely caring caress, then drops wash the tears of yesterday’s night’s plight, her yet again, tear drenched lonely reception of those cold sheets, her bed ever a reminder of the betrayal that put her in this spot in the first place, not but a moment, years ago. With every lie, broken date, unfulfilled promise, cold cruel touch, she again faces the same road, ever struggling along to, this time, make it right, trying to walk