Here where everyone forgets everything,
including where they are
or what they are fighting to remember,
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I can’t help recalling the childhood afternoon
that I was bloodied in a baseball game
by a kid who wanted to murder me,
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and how my father, who was streetwise
to the world, a former Golden Gloves champ
in the lightweight division in west Chicago,
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laced me into a pair of shiny red gloves
and then chalked a ring in our back yard,
shouting encouragement from the corner…
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My old man taught me to raise my hands
and keep moving, to feint and weave,
to dance on the balls of my feet
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and use my shoulders when I punched,
to stutter-step and lean, to jab hard
with my left, and hook with my right.
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My father taught me never to be afraid
to fight, while I grunted and pranced
around our patio under the sweating lights,
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bounding off the imaginary ropes
to defend myself, tasting my own blood,
shadowboxing an invisible enemy.
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