Everything you do you do precisely.
The shine, cut off, heat, double down,
your famous five-move come back,
the false finish, and then the finish.
John, you leave us in little doubt,
you send the crowd home happy. John,
this isn’t personal. In many ways
you’re my generation’s Hogan –
and isn’t that half the problem?
You’ve all the mystery of a mystery novel
read back to front. Every shot of you
is the establishing shot. You’re the red state
voting red. You’re the spoiler: America
wins again! Beyond your routine
salute, your Marine Corps hymn
to never giving up, to hustle, loyalty and respect,
I hear a national anthem play
the flag-draped coffin into the earth. So,
fuck up once in a while, why don’t you,
in a way we don’t anticipate. Let the pay-off be
that you paid off the referee’s identical twin;
that it was you who put up a million
for the champion’s head delivered;
that concealed in your khaki jorts
was the foreign object, the cosh
or brass knuckles. John, show us the heel
of your human side. Better yet,
go into business for yourself:
when he’s laid out clean as a sheet, bow,
kiss your prone opponent’s forehead
and trace the ten count through the curtain.
Often, when it comes to your
distinctive brand of violence, John,
less is more
and none is more than enough.
Image © Tony Litvyak
