Poem: The Knockout

Seemed to come from deep south-west.
Saw nothing, a time-delayed snapshot.
Liniment-scented recall,
muscled masseur, paws tightly taped.
Sequined gown, laced leather pillows.
Emerging from dim-lit dungeon,
midst smoke-throttled roar,
pallid Queensberry gladiator, British-born,
thrusting through patting hands, t-shirt security.
Brain-splitting cacophony, blinding neon.
Ropes part, dark rippling adversary across resined-canvas ocean.
Penguins strut, PA blaring.
Gloves touch, eyes glare.
Time concertinas, shapely belles with boards.
Other bells ring.
Nakedly alone, armed with trainer vocals,
roadwork long-forgotten, defence, survival.
Certain knowledge of second place.
He’s stronger, younger, fitter. A natural.
I’m just here for the breadwinning.

Never saw it coming. From deep southwest.
An arced rainbow of blooded sweat.

Why has the penguin four faces?