the two men’s feet dance to the rhythm of chants
from the crowd with lungs of steel. sound of skin
bruising and muscles stretching like an elastic echo 

through a small box propped in the far corner of
Saeed’s home. did you hear? the medicine man bought
a Hitachi TV? Saeed’s son, only ten, catches whispers,

puffs with pride. he watches as the crowd cups
their hands and shouts from 4,009 miles up close.
thick brows crinkle and eyes squint as fluorescent

light falls upon brown faces becoming gray,
get ‘em! make it a knockout! teacups rattle and spill
their insides while a brass paan box is shuffled

between auto-wallahs, attar-wallahs, seamstresses,
and the young wearing books and spectacles.
they sit on the cement floor, cross-legged, resting

backs on long pillows leaning against walls.
some stand up on feet with shoulders jammed
into corners. the coolness of the night cloaks

the spectators. lulling ringing of round number eight.
the long antennae is adjusted, an arm swings.
there is stillness. only a bead of sweat on

Saeed’s son’s forehead glistens before slipping.
then a clamorous uproar as all of
Karachi stands and leaps in celebration.

decades later when Saeed, the medicine man, is long gone
when his grandchildren live in lands he’s never visited,
and the famous boxer has since retired, and

televisions are razor thin and fit into palms, Saeed’s son
will retell thestory of the first match he watched,
and his children, bearing the last name Muhammad,

will be wide-eyed in wonder and beg, tell it again
but from the very beginning, and their father will only
hope his mind stretches so far back.