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He shuffles slowly and alone toward the martial arts room,

Unaware of anyone else around…

I, in yoga class across the hall, am his sole observer.

Bright red padded floor and pitch black punching bags invite him in;

Kyphotic curve, bent and lowly

He enters not hesitantly but deliberately.

Eyes of an eager puppy once, now watery and hopeful;

His commitment to workouts never waver.

He gives a right, light jab to the bag at his rib cage level,

Almost as if he’s afraid to hurt it.

Alternating rhythmically like the pendulum on a grandfather clock

A left …

A right…

A left…

A right…

A left…

About ten in all,

He gives it the ‘ole one-two.

A short and friendly fight, to do no harm.

I want to know what thoughts are floating through his mind

Is he thinking about the days of boxing when he was a youth?

Did he have dreams of glory?

 

 

                                                                        A.  Locke 2013