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He is bronze, yet has avoided that
most humiliating blow, to be
melted into coinage. One hand rests
over the other, in leather gloves.

The money's forgotten. Exhausted,
turning in blind acceptance to hear
whatever the referee tells him,
that it's all over perhaps. To see

the scars, battered eye and swollen ears
(and the pains taken to portray them
in dark alloy and red copper) is
to see not defeat but dignity.

The Boxer by John Greening | Poetry Fabric Box

$15.00Price
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