A Sixties man thing: Dad, us, circling to bond
as hard as Ingemar Johansson's glue in the ad
around our huge box, its screen a snow globe
of American static. The night Johansson won,
a commentator summarised Floyd Patterson:
feet of a ballet dancer, but chin of a poet . . .
Floyd knocked out Ingemar in the rematch;
his brilliant smile shone through his glass jaw.

Brothers boxed: Mancinis, Coopers, Walkers -
honest family fare. Abroad, Henry Cooper said
you needed to knock out locals to get a draw.
Yanks dived or swam in concrete boxing boots.
Perhap my poet's foot is in my mouth now, Tom,
former Middleweight Champion of the Royal Navy,
but I most remember Freddie Mills sucking a rifle
in the back of a car on his soul's darkest night.

You might counter with Dick Tiger burning bright;
bright enough to find words for 'the blacklights',
those galaxies only battered fighters can explore.
Generous, Dick give away age, weight or height
but never heart, slipping cannibal taunts to win;
a Biafran civil warrior later yet, hero to both sides -
another trick of boxing: it can also make more love.
Square that ring, poet; brother, raise your hands.