Ali Jonathan Wonham Ali was leaning so far back on the ropes he looked like a man with a job to do on the ceiling. Or perhaps he was looking beyond the ceiling, waiting for the young Foreman to tire or lose hope. At which time, and not a moment before, he would place that fatal punch, or was it seven, one for each day of creation, finally to lay his body down on the floor. Slow-talking Foreman on the evening news put locals in mind of the security police. He wasn’t to know. But he shouldn’t have let the German Shepherd do his interviews. It made his aggression look borrowed, unlike Ali’s which was beautiful and real: fiery as some handsome killer bee, shaken around in a jar until it screamed, then stupidly set free.

Habits Rufo Quintavalle I light my cigarette just right, another with a nod of my head, and leave unfinished all endeavours, like the monk to catch death out that order love hope way