Rope-a-Dope

Nothing for days, then a message:

“I want to see a fight. An old one,”

so I bring a fight to you.

You know nothing of these men;

even the most famous

get to slink in their youth again —

for you Foreman is Leviathan, unstoppable;

Ali just past his prime

flown “home” to muscle back his title.

Not sure how you’ll react to violence

we lie down again together —

your feet in woollen stockings

kneadable across my thighs,

your mouth close to my ribs

and their inmate: a pouting lifer.

I fidget and you scold.

As Ali opens up with right-hand leads

you flinch

but soon you’re lost to the screen

where he waits it out along the ropes,

takes everything Foreman throws.

You don’t believe he can soak up

all this pain and go on standing;

we cheer him on,

winter softened in the tropic of his strength.

When Ali comes alive to put Foreman on the ground

I see a hallelujah look as you turn to face me.

“He won,” you say into my cheek.

“He did,” I say.