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 Adolescents sidestep each other
 methodically avoiding confrontation.
 Skinny lengths of irony, ungainly presented
 and held captive in a roped off square.

 My shoulders bob in sympathy
 expertly picking punches that I will never throw.
 The words of a thousand commentaries
 ring in my ears, masquerading as wisdom

 when in reality, I have only second hand advice.
 At last they come together. Disciplined at first,
 measured strikes from the coaching manual.
 Yet soon it degenerates, stung into action

 tired arms throw brawly blows.
 Headgear barely cushions haymakers
 and one boy reels, fireworks before his eyes,
 he bobs, weaves, ducks and dives.

 For a split second the barbarity appals,
 I know a million brain cells end prematurely.
 A vision of Ali and a dozen punch-drunk fighters
 suddenly question the art of this sport.

 Yet adrenalin dismisses common sense
 as my son counters…

 with a perfect, beautiful straight right.