poem

 Punching BagAfter the rower I start punching the bag. Someone told me it was a healthy outlet for aggression.  It can be a face, a minor slight, a missed chance, a dull thud of repressed rage. I ’m bashing it all into submission, pounding precordial thumps to bring myself back to life. Ten jabs with the left, then ten with the right, followed by a series of combinations. I do this over and over.  By the end I can barely raise my arms. I ’m a bare chest sheened in sweat rapidly evaporating to a cool dryness like the recently deceased. It’s back to being just a leather bag hanging from a chain.  Smeared with blood from my knuckles in an inspissated pattern of abstract art that no one will ever be able to interpret. I need someone to lick my wounds, taste the bitter salt of my flesh. I ’ve got nothing left. If I had to protect myself now I’d curl up into a ball. Just play dead.8/16/22
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs