The marriage is still 

on its feet, 

but rubber-legged. 

Ringside, I crease 

my scorecard. 

My wife twirls 

her pen. 

When the marriage drops 

its hands, a jab snaps 

back its head. 

The marriage ducks 

behind its forearms. 

A shot to the stomach 

pops out its mouthpiece. 

After the marriage lands one, 

falling rocks batter it 

to the ropes above me. 

The marriage is staggered, 

but refuses to go down, 

thugs it out, blood 

winding down its leg. 

My wife reaches up a finger, 

steals a taste,

and shares it with me.

(end)