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A steel worker's son enters the ring,
breath gunned to the punch.
Right hook, jab, jab, fake
and dancing, dancing, dancing
until there is the sweet acid smell hugging his body.
Then, O'Malley himself, after decades of wet towels,
cracked gloves and busted teeth, wipes down his ears,
blood from his nose, pumps him until the bell blares again.
And as the steel worker's son jumps forward for another jab, left hook, left hook
then jab again he is no longer a son of a bitch Mick, without a dime,
tokin' dope in the alley, fumbling with tits of giggling girls.
He is in an act of majesty. An unspoken sensuality transforms him
into a man before his time, iron-hearted and glorious in his own right.
In the corner, he stares ahead as O'Malley re-laces his gloves. For a little luck,
they mouth Sullivan, Sullivan, Sullivan;
that scrapper, scrapping for his life, for history,
moving his way up by the fist.
Then the knockout, the count, all screech to a quick end.
His busted eye grows blacker by the minute,
his sprained hand throbs. Still the steelworker's son intoxicated by his win, his hunger of power
ascends the stairs, leaving O'Malley alone knowing that
punching power won't fill them up, even if they think it will.
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