Sonny...

Sonny Liston. American boxing titan. He stood up for himself, took care of those around him. The public didn't like his brutish power or his desperate criminal past. So they made it his future, his fate, and his death. In private, with trusted friends or children or his wife, he was warm and gentle, smart and humble. May 1932 (Sand Slough, Arkansas) - December 1970 (Las Vegas, Nevada).

I don't look at you until I have to,

                                                             and then I use both hands.

On predators with gloves, or microphones.

                                                                          I wear scars on my back

                                                                        From when father thrashed

                                                                                   So I'd pull his plow.

Look at me now.

                                                           I rode tracks to another city

                                                                 at 13, on my own.

                                                 Where kids laugh at me,

                                                       quiet and solid—

dwarfing books.

                  Thugs and thieves smile at me.

                                  They like

                     my looks.

                                                                For God, I am rooted in the ground.

                                                      Jab a left,                                    throw a right:

                                               Press the air,                                    make them sway.

                                          Then hard stares,                       tight jaws

                                           all go soft.

                                            If I just lean into them

                                           in this quiet, honest way.

                                                                                              You don't trust me,

                                                               fixed on owning my path to survive.

                                                                                   Don't like me either,

  sliding home with                                          both hands on the prize.

But I am your champion:

                        I rejoice at                         unbroken children.

                                  I take                  the policeman's gun.

                                    Her                  gentle man.

                                Your              outcast son.