The Champ   The Champ is down, cold-cocked. Seven. Eight. Nine. (      two      heads      faces      backlit      floating  in  smoke floating  in  warm  wet  gauze     unending  wind choirs  of  voices    choirs  of  bells    one  face  broken one  barking    numbers   the  other  gone the other  ) The Champ stirs, slowly rises, staggers, steadies, blinks hard twice, unfreezes, nods all-clear. By God, the Champ fights on,   tapping the gloves as if to strike a spark, as if to pray (  the other  ) and the crowd is delirious, a heaving sea of darkness and fists, cigars and fedoras, now rapt, now roaring, now shrieking like a raw nerve, electric, as the two of them dance the dance of circling beasts, now grappling, now glancing blows, now thunder — by God, the Champ fights on,   unrelenting (the other) a quick left, a right, darting jabs, starting to connect, at last the Kid is on the ropes, a deft feint from the Champ, dauntless on the blood-flecked mat (the other), that bed of mortal conflict, the crowd’s madness is love, uppercut, the Kid’s head flies back, rock-a-shock, eyes shut, nimbus of sweat and blood — the Champ fights on,   by God ( the other ) and the Kid is through. Carted off. And then the ref does his shtick, the big-mike announcer does his bit, too, the crowd trades backslaps and greenbacks. The fix is in, someone mutters gravely. (   gone never gone   ) Echoes and laughter, house lights. Janitors appear, disappear. The night is over — and by God, the Champ fights on.                                                                       for Marti     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2011