a continent away from ringside,
cinema seat at a further remove.
To prepare, I dog-ear Liebling’s

The Sweet Science, returning
to when people of all classes
rubbed shoulders to savor hook

and jab, when heckling was art
and no one took selfies. I don’t
want a KO but twelve rounds

of pummeling. A close match
means anguish at the judges’ call.
As always, I back the underdog,

although I’d pity the champion
his loss. Old, I dread the old
going down, yet there’s a hunger

in the first-timer I can’t help
but celebrate. The announcers kill
time after the too-quick

preliminaries, the headliners’ hands
still being wrapped like antiques
about to travel a far distance.

Everyone ogles their screen, slack-jawed,
as if we were the ones
punched in the face.

Devon Balwit’s poems have been published in The Worcester Review, The Cincinnati Review, Tampa Review, Apt (long form issue), Tule Review, Sugar House Review, Poetry South, saltfront, and Grist among others. For more poems, collections and reviews, see her website at: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet