The Killer Punch

The seven-foot-three-inch

staggering grunge

punches the hero so hard

the face splashes

like it’s not bone but water.

Then the perfect features

recongeal, with two strands

of hair curiously out of place.

He hits him again.

He hits him.

The hero’s hurtling across the table

like a plate flung by a furious housewife.

He should be dead, but to our perspiring

staggering disbelief,

he rises to deliver a blow.

In life, is this possible?

Sometimes. Self-belief

and the work, if they’re any good,

are weirdly absorbent.

Nothing appears

to exhaust them. They fly,

they topple, they’re battered,

they get up, like it didn’t matter

how often that killer punch hit home.