Sonnet for a beaten man

A pop. A flash. The noise swims back; words clash.
Thick scents of men, and sweat, hang heavily.
A pop. A flash; not flesh, but photographs,
as History makes the back page daily.

Thoughts blur; "I could have been a contender."
Whispers lost against still arguing fans.
Managers page, and sponsors surrender.
'Retirement' is echoed in demands.

Put out to grass at thirty-three-years-old.
Glass jaw set against swollen tides of hate.
Forgotten; when the corpse is barely cold!
Left hook now cradles bottled beer in crates.

I run a little sports-bar; pay the rent.
And can't regret the way my life was spent.

(abab cdcd efef gg)