The scars on his knuckles match the scars on his uncle’s.
It’s family tradition by now, predisposed in his DNA.
He was made for the ring, but lives for the drink.
He may climb his ladder, but further he will sink.
Just a white boy on 7th Street named Ronnie.
With red hair and pale skin, he doesn’t fit in.
He lives in a segregated neighborhood,
Growing up as no boy should.
Trained at a young age to like the taste of blood,
Not by choice, not by family.
A wall of loud and young flesh surrounds.
While the size of his opponent confounds.
Such is creation.
We are all but small children,
Facing the problem of impossiblity.
While slowly realizing our mortality.