His old arms fight to hold three six-packs
of cheap beer, waiting to pay behind me.
He’s pinned them to his gut, bent his knees,
and absorbs the ice-cold blows in silence.
With one ear I hear as I walk toward the door,
“I was the number 5 heavy-weight boxer in the world!”
and his words echo in my head as though through
an arena where somehow the seats are empty.