Four wins to twenty-eight defeats.
The waistband of his pearl trunks reads "El Diablo,"
or the champion of our sad hearts.  No flash
nor pop.  Vice.  In the mornings he traces his nose
with the end of his toothbrush.  Recalls moments
while shadowboxing in the mirror.  "El Diablo!"
he says to his opponent, thumping
his chest.  "I'm here!"