Jon Pineda
I saved the Cotto fight
for my son to watch.
I poured another cup of
coffee while he brought
Lucky Charms into the living
room, and there, early
morning, we hit play
on the dvr and mapped
how Pacquiao’s gloves pressed
into the statistics they would,
taking their place in the fate
of the other boxer’s face, Man,
we whispered in unison, on cue,
Amy and Emma still asleep
upstairs, I let the match go on,
though only fast forwarding
to spots where Cotto fell,
the fighter’s own son finally
escorted away from the ring,
ours tapping his spoon like a bell.