One. One Two.
The gloves land on him.
A red river streams down his face.
Crash!
The boxer tumbles down.

The numbers fly out the ref's mouth.
"One two"
The boxer grabs the ropes
"Three four"
He pulls himself up to endure more

punches. One staggers as the other dances.
Ding!
The end of the round.
My job begins.
I'm The Cutman you see.

Ref comes over.
He says "I'm stopping this if that cut
doesn't heal."
I apply the war paint.
The paint which hides the red river.

It's the next round.
The boxer can barely get off the stool.
He's half dead.
But he wants the title.
That's why I make him look pretty.

Next to me lies a bloodied towel.
Drenched by blood from The War.
One toss and it's over.
The boxer's torture ends
But so does his dream.

I pick it up and watch.
I don't know what I'm looking for
A bad cut? A nasty punch?
I want to throw it but I can't.
Even though he's almost dead.

"Throw it!"
An angered voice cries besides me.
So I watch the rag as it hits the canvas
As the boxer also hits the canvas
And he lies there.

Dead.