I'm babysitting the Garlow boy,

   who is asleep now,

      and the fight is over,

         Louis having disposed of the challenger

at 2:09 of the opening round.

   Beside me on the porch swing 

      sits the girl who knows more

         about my dreams than I do,

she is in them that much,

   her face so delicate that one 

      right cross, one smart left jab 

         would surely for all time spoil it,

and later I'll think how

   behind each great public event

      lies the small private one,

         how the small one, aware of the other,

measures itself against the lofty clamor

   until it's the private one that

      truly matters, that endures,

         almost as if the mind becomes convinced

that greatness is a ruse

   enabling smallness its breathing space,

      its down-home victory. Beside me my girl

         sits more than ever elegant and alert

because Mauriello, on his seat against the ropes,

   didn't, and her lips when I kiss them

      taste sweetly of the blood 

         that isn't there. This night

is like a pod about to burst,

   an Indian-summer moon I swear 

      within arm's reach beyond the trellis,

         the thumping of the dynamos

across town at the power plant

   as if the heartbeat of some God,

      almighty. Well, I knew all along the Bomber

         could not be whipped by a Bronx

bartender. I knew, and my knowing 

   adds a modicum of pride

      to the lust of the moment, 

         Mauriello (I'll

read this tomorrow evening

   in the Beacon)

      weeping in his dressing-room,

         my girl and I so filled with whatever

weeping isn't

   we bite our tongues,

      I think to moderate the simple joy 

         we'd otherwise indulge by crying.