You what? He spits.
His knuckles clench, thumbs
tuck to fists and elbows flex;
he squares up, rises to his toes,
knees bent, ready to dance, then
Hands dip to hitch
his slipping jeans.
The photo was kindly provided by a friend, nephew of Stan Roberts, when I said I didn’t have any ideas about what to post to the blog.
I think the intention was to inspire me to write a new poem. Instead, I thought it made an interesting contrast to the modern wannabe fighter in this piece written a couple of years ago, inspired by a lad in the village.
(And, yes, despite knowing very little about fighting of any kind, I do know that wrestlers and boxers are not the same.)