Now his nose’s bridge is broken, one eye <br />will not focus and the other is a stray; <br />trainers whisper in his mouth while one ear <br />listens to itself, clenched like a fist; <br />generally shadowboxing in a smoky room, <br />his mind hides like the aching boys <br />who lost a contest in the Panhellenic games <br />and had to take the back roads home, <br />but someone else, his perfect youth, <br />laureled in newsprint and dollar bills, <br />triumphs forever on the great white way <br />to the statistical Sparta of the champs.<br /><br />Alan Dugan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-hurricane-jackson/
