To Floyd Patterson

Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly;
Sweet rhyming of fates, Pat, and you, and hell,
Chiming with toyed and void and ringside bell
Rattling like a broken angel's dying cry:
And Ali's gloves were slick, and life was long,
As one strange, sad September song.

I could have been you: champion, afraid,
Hiding by blinds from the knocking door;
(Some bible guy; a nut; next door's maid)
Trembling at unblocked words and never sure...
I should have been you: but eager, landing,
I never understood your understanding.

Peek-a-booing out behind those cushioned fists,
The agony of punches that may never come,
Throw fast! Throw first! Sing, supple wrists!
But no. Instead: Get up! Stay down! The thrum.
Hatred and defeat. Relief. Finally, you.
Solace in something certain, terrible, true.

Thomas Clark