In the red corner,
pensive.
Staring across a ring
a thousand
miles
wide.
Her adversary
only grins.
In the black corner,
weighing in
at the totality of life,
the grim reaper
flexes his bones.
A dry, ancient crackle
shivers her spine.
She wears
sorrow,
a dark veil,
a tartan skirt.
The reaper wears sequined shorts,
brazenly.
Emblazoned with his name.
Hanging
like
rags
from bony hips,
he shadow boxes;
queensbury rules.
The seconds are out.
She stands,
Bumps leather gloves
Together.
Wonders idly,
why the reaper
gets to use a scythe?