CRAFT OF THE CLINCH

 

On the anniversary of that day

when slave-named Clay dethroned dread Liston,

this new poem begins.

It is face down in a moment

of raw morning; paws at the gap

between curtains;

rises from the crumple

of trousers and jumper, looking

like a man asked to ransack a dustbin.

 

My belt curls through your sandals –

the once-new pair

bought for that trip we never made.

Outside, the din of re-laying tarmac:

blow-by-blow, repeated assertions

shake our glass door.

Above a shelf of children’s stories,

Japan hangs in canvas make-believe

of bridge beneath blossom.

 

Unsure which side to favour, this poem

backs into a neutral corner;

finds its towel and takes a knee.

There’s the faint whiff of liniment

standing by. My cool blue watch

counts down to seven –

TKO in one round fewer

than Ali had foretold. Saved,

not by a bell but a buzzer.

 

 

 

ii. 2020