Winter Night

The late-afternoon light entered

the living room through the barred

windows like a boxer through ropes.

When my mom’s bronze Chevrolet

pulled down the driveway, I hurried

away my toys. She always waved,

never smiled. Funny how my dad

coming home isn’t a memory.

It was not joy when they got home

but relief. With his hand, my dad

warmed beer, and my mom, with

a fork, jabbed defrosted meat.

This was when she started calling

me Champ. At dinner, dad asked

if I wanted the belt. My memory

of those years is punch-drunk.

Her best defense was a good offense.

Like the warming before snow,

mom thawed into pleasantries.

After dinner my father sat on the floor

with his corduroy shorts riding up

his thighs while I put on boxing gloves

around his shadow. I floated, stung.

I rode his shoulders over crowds,

raised my arms. The oversized gloves

on my hands were smaller, lighter

than my want to punch him.