Back Then What I Dreamed Of Was…
To be a great light-heavyweight
like Archie Moore, who I once saw
defend his crown in ’58
by climbing back up off the floor
to kayo wild Yvon Durelle -
a kid who had no form or grace,
just came out swinging from the bell -
dropped Ancient Archie on his face,
three times in three quick minutes, but
each time the champ rose to his feet,
pawed out a left, tucked in his gut,
and fought a staggering retreat.
Now suddenly undignified
at forty-four, a stumble-bum,
Moore shook his head - his skill and pride
became the night’s curriculum -
Durelle charged, roaring, lunged and chased,
displaced the air with artless rage,
and when he missed was sharply laced
with twisting jabs, and learned a page
or two about how aging kings
do not give thrones up readily;
and how, when jolted in the ring’s
familiar bounds, they steadily
regain their rhythm, and in time,
ta-TUM, ta-TUM, augment the jabs
with combos that make both ears chime.
Round six - it’s now Durelle who grabs,
his head spun by a TUM-ta-TUM,
and stares bewildered, broken-nosed,
out at the Forum crowd; two dumb,
dead eyes, a piece of meat, transposed
from joy to pain by unseen blows
that punctuate the snot-choked fate
which vengeful gods mete out to those
who dare to disrespect the great.
Round ten – a crowd of Archie Moores
surrounds and stabs the wounded beast –
dark, turning, gleaming matadors
prepared to consummate a feast –
then one, on measured, careful feet
sets up the waiting prey until
he feints a hook, delays one beat –
TUM-ta-ta-TUM-ta-TUM - the kill
in round eleven cruelly sends
to those, like me, who live with dreams,
a bloodied envoy out to state
that dreams are not the same as ends,
and that it’s tougher than it seems
to be a great light heavyweight.
(Appeared in the Spring/Summer 2004 issue. I selected this one because it is not a typical "Light" poem - but John saw something in it.)
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