Sweatshirts and streetlights
conflict in the early morning hours
with his bloody knuckles from Friday night
after the fight, after the pay out
Latin Kings wanted him a runner
Momma a congressman
He to sweat and burn his chest
to bleed the shared blood of
the battles already won
while friends punch their way
from paper bags and explain
to themselves the empty backpacks
that were to be filled with promise.
He knew of two colors
Red, crimson red
and fluorescent yellow streetlight
with common flair for the fighters
not with quicker hands but with quicker heads
that chose a quicker life
Swinging at air
and feeling the regrettable burn,
churning chest
He reaches above
Wondering if his head's quick enough
to bob and weave
to achieve his Golden Gloves
