Moshe Breslau, Managed by His Younger Brother Daniel in the Fight Game: the Lower East Side, 1916
Danny’s taken over managing my fights,
with Big Al probably at the bottom
of the Narrows, wearing cement dress shoes.
When he tried to get me to throw a bout,
and after I refused and hit him,
Danny cleaned up the mess.
As kids, it was me who’d protect him from bullies
picking on a weakling smarter than them, pushing,
punching him, ‘til I’d guard him to and from cheder,
breaking some teeth, when things got rough.
But now, with his saykhel, he looks out for me:
I never see the big picture, like he does:
his mind clicking faster than the hooves
of the winner at the featured race at Belmont,
like when he used to run numbers for Big Al,
keeping all the info in his head,
a ledger neater than any I can write.
Tonight, I fight the champ.
I can take him, easy: two steps slower
than in his heyday, his fists weighted down,
and not with the piles of quarters that send
your opponent into woozy-canary-land
when you connect, his jaw suddenly
more fragile than Seder wine glasses.
Here’s Danny now, not looking too happy.
Shit, I hope Ma and Pa are okay, and Esther
ain’t tossed a conniption fit on account of her role
in the play Danny got her into, ain’t big enough.