The fight is up for grabs when

neither man can throw a punch

because a gust of wild haymakers

is akin to a multitude of prayers

from those who’ve never bowed

their heads but just learned they’re

dying of a disease difficult to

pronounce, while the skater

connects on a combination of tricks

and you can tell he’s devoted to a

life of shuv-its and kickflips, and

grinds between the bottom of his

board and benches create a holy

union after a series of impromptu

consummations. I’m most me when

my surroundings resemble all that

I’m not: the chihuahua pissing in

a planter and prancing off, the

delivery truck bringing its immense

weight to a stop in front of a taqueria

that reeks of long hours and grease.

Because what we have here is slice

of life divided into segments so clear

you realize how you end the poem is

how you begin the rest

of your life.