Boom-Boom Mancini? Rocky Balboa?
I got a Roland for your Oliver.
Sinuous vision with heart of champion,
warrior goddess with strength of Tartar.
Broken and bloody following mishap,
clavicle angle off ninety degrees
My warrior princess just shrugs her shoulder,
gets back on her bike as if no biggie.
We’re far from our home, King Louis city,
next morning consents doctor to consult.
My bad-ass woman, doctor amazes,
cannot believe cries not in tumult.
Visit New Orleans purpose is running
five kilometers the Turkey Day Race,
looks at physician and asks the question
if in the 5-K she should slow her pace.
Thunder bolts, lightning, eyes big as saucers,
“There’ll be no running for you for a while,”
The goddess just smiles in condescension
no shrinking violet, knows she’ll be just fine.
With arm in a sling she toes the start line
here for a reason, that’s running a race.
Along with our son we create phalanx,
“The jarring’s not bad,” says, “let’s up the pace.”
For three-point-one miles my impish devil
trotted with her arm secured in that sling.
She slowed her pace down, worried ’bout falling,
at end of the race she was still grinning.
Warrior’s fierceness beats heart of goddess
best not mess with her if you wish to live.
Boom Boom Mancini? Rocky Balboa?
Mine is a champion who holds world captive.