Author’s Note

This poem is about muscle memory.

Not the physical kind, but the kind you build over years of showing up — writing through doubt, through silence, through the versions of yourself that didn’t yet know how strong they were becoming.

Fancy Footwork uses boxing as metaphor, but the real fight happens on the page and in the mind. Every dodge, every feint, every combination comes from long preparation — from learning how to move with intention instead of panic.

This isn’t bravado. It’s recognition.

Twenty-three years of practice doesn’t look like luck. It looks like instinct.

— Rowan Evans

Fancy Footwork
Poetry by Rowan Evans

When I put pen to paper,
my ink becomes a cage
on the page
the way I write bars.

Yeah, my ink flows—
it floats
like a butterfly,
stings like a bee.

Hit you with that
one, two and three.
Right jab, left hook—
followed by an uppercut.

It’s fancy footwork,
the way my ink glides
and slides across the page.
It’s a dance,
choreographed—
every line precise.

I duck,
slip, dodge
and throw a feint.
Misdirect,
then change direction,
onslaught,
raining fists.

Watching everyone
that considers themselves
opposition—
losing their minds,
as I
continue to gain
position.

They aren’t even
competition.
Nobody will
stop me
on my ascension.

Eyes focused
on the mission.

I will climb the ladder
one rung at a time.
Watch my ranking rise,
win after win,
fight after fight—
see the smile on my face?
This is
my championship chase,
I will claim
the top place.

I’ve been preparing for this
for twenty-three years.
Shadowboxing
inside the lines,
it was me
versus my mind.

I was—
hitting the gym,
testing reflexes
building the instinct,
to move
the way poetry flows.

Movement so quick,
I hit like a flash—
every jab,
lands like prose.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]