I have a poster size picture of Mohammed Ali
hanging in my living room.
He’s standing over Sonny Liston,
who’s laying flat on his back.
Ali is flexing every muscle of his mind and body,
hands at his side while they’re still in his gloves,
and he’s yelling something so loud, but I can’t hear it.
Reporters, photographers and the ropes in the background
all fade into black.
Which is where my imagination starts.
The black turns into white, the background disappears,
and all I see is Mohammed Ali
He isn’t in the poster and he isn’t on my wall.
He is life size and real, with wings like an angel,
and he’s flying away.