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.