The Champ   The Champ was 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 stirred, slowly arose, staggered, steadied, blinked hard twice, froze -- unfroze, nodded all-clear. By God, the Champ fought on,   tapping the gloves as if to strike a spark, as if to pray (  the other  ) and the crowd was delirious, a heaving sea of darkness and fists and cigars, fedoras, now rapt, now roaring, now shrieking like a raw nerve, electric, as the two of them danced the dance of circling beasts, now grappling, now glancing blows, now thunder -- by God, the Champ fought on,   unrelenting (the other) a quick left, a right, darting jabs, starting to connect, at last the Kid was 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 was love, uppercut, the Kid's head shot back, rock-a-shock, eyes shut, nimbus of sweat, of blood -- the Champ fought on,   by God ( the other ) and the Kid was through. Carted off. And then the ref did his shtick, the big-mike announcer did his thing, too, the crowd traded backslaps and greenbacks, pickpockets took notice, went to work (   gone never gone   ) echoes and laughter, house lights. Janitors appeared, disappeared. The night was over -- and by God, the Champ fought on.                                                                       for Marti     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont December 2011