The Family of Man
nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…
He bulls forward, big gutted
white singlet beefy titted:
sweat-beads salt his balding frown
here in the no-hiding-place ring,
the squared up centre
of this sunset boxing booth,
raucous with woodbine smoke,
stenched with drunken cheer.
I hop from one foot to another
magnetised to see him charge,
shocked at how much he looks like Dad
nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…
Why do men snort their desired impact?
Why does Dad auto-grunt foot shuffles
nnnff…nnnff…nnnff…
to the huddled mid-evening radio,
inter-round commentaries
by W. Barrington-Dalby?
“Penny a punch, Tom!” But he misses
as lightfoot booth-pro dances and ducks,
weaves jaunty rings round this pale paunch,
flickers out jabs to bay him, exhaust him
till crowdpleaser flurries can be tolerated
nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…
and blood-spatter polkas dot
fattyarbuckle’s marlonbrando vest –
one hundred knuckle-scuff pub brawls
do not a fairground champion make.
Still, it’s coins that really matter:
enough flabby-armed blows are allowed
to get unfisted hands delving into pockets,
ready for when a canny hook settles it,
splits a slobby lip, sinks this flushed dreadnought –
nnnnnffff…nnnff…nf…no more.
Boy in this world of men, I hold no money
so I am free to gaze on the scudding nobbins,
the pennies, threepenny bits, sixpences,
shillings, florins, even a half crown or two,
that bounce across the impassive canvas,
maroon-stained with the gore of ghosts.
Dad picks up a brown coin that has escaped,
tosses it back between the fraying ropes.
He must never find out, never ever know
how scared I am in the playground,
in the street, on the rec, on the bridge.
In my bedroom, safe from the Out There,
I pose to face the bruising mirror:
nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…nnnnnffff…
Ted Eames, 2019