Prize Fighter

I love horses because they will outrunthe fastest man. They are majestic,
as stately as a Saturday womanbefore a party. Horses smell like what
it means to be fast: sweat & gravelkicked up on early morning runs.
The in & out of breath like gravelin tired lungs. I groomed & raced
horses from Texas to Boston untilone broke my leg bone with a sideways
kick. I can't ride horses anymorebut even if I could, we've got these
automobiles now that can carry usa mile in a minute. I'm buying the fastest
automobile I can find once I getmy money together. In the ring,
I'm like an automobile. My fists worklike cranked-up engines. I've got
the kind of elasticity other fightersdream about after I put them to sleep
on the canvas. When I clinch a man,it's like being swaddled in forgiveness.
When I hook a man, it's like being hitby frustration. I can't tell if horses
are happy or confounded by the newmeans of locomotion, but I can say
with certainty my prizefighting cohortsare decidedly dissatisfied by my presence.