This is the story of an Irish boxer in 1895 Boston who discovers that his wife is plotting against him with a local gangster that he refuses to work for to rig a fight that he refuses to throw…
THE PUGILIST
Emboldened and further, faster, harder, then once more
cast upon floorboards no worse for the wear much past a
new lost fight, the bloodied brawler eyed the bar room floor
last week’s lost wage lasted way longer when love wore
a sundress he bought instead of some lunch
at the prior address behind happier doors
the pugilist gazed at the scraps he had raised with
no choice but to show the enclosed note to Mary
the markings meant nothing, his schooling was this
regardless of hubris to the contrary
He stumbled with crackpots and rats after his shift
through alleys too filthy to breathe and tributaries
of waste kids played in with leaf boats smiling, and tripped
smelling of Guinness into Mary’s sweet voice
handing her his wages (minus a bit for the bar)
and the note he’d been handed by Seamus’ boys
it again reminded them “muscle is worth
more outside the ring if you know the right people
and have the right stomach for that type of work
and weekly chats at st pat’s cathedral”
standing alone on a floor made of packed dirt
she wondered if Seamus was, in deed, evil
she wrote a sly note and they plotted their worst
(from the first they were those kind of people)
in the house summer warmed, now cold at first light
the fighter rehearsed for love’s last purse
even as he took it the pistol felt right
her kiss was too final, like pulled in a hearse
the pugilist chooses going out in fine style
standing up and knowing all the while
why love left Mary’s sight
and though he wouldn’t live
to see what the judges give
the final bell
would ring like hell
for Seamus as well
that night