this poem
has nothing to do
with the question

this poem
has everything to do
with the question

this poem
is not
a poem, save the resounding thud of a twelve-ounce boxing glove impacting the temporal region of a would-be opponent near the blue corner of a small ring crammed into a VFW hall, a handful of inebriated patrons watching almost silently as the boxer collapses onto a moist blood-stained canvas and her mouthpiece rolls onto the judges' table as the ref directs the standing fighter to a neutral corner and begins the count with "two" while Dr. Kördann takes her place behind the lectern. "I think we ought to debrief," she says. "Perhaps I should first explain that this... This demonstration was not at all what I had intended to present today. But, uh... It's hard to anticipate what might transpire under these circumstances (or any other), so I thought... Well, perhaps we should move directly to questions."