by Ian Duhig
for Tom Duhig
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 summarized Floyd Patterson:
the feet of a ballet dancer, the chin of a poet.
Floyd knocked out Ingemar in their rematch;
his brilliant smile shone through his glass jaw.
