Post Match Try

February 1, 2008

Here’s a go at the first draft extended….

Post Match

After the hussle and howl of the
hand grenade, leather stitched bag
that’s been stitched like a face
the silence is stark in the stalls –

on the pitch,
in locker room showers
where the cleaner is finished –
but surprised by the shirts.

The players look small on the field
but you’d think they’d be larger up close.

Not tiny and flattened like pieces of litter
She thought they were flyers
but then she saw collars
and paper ripped hems.

The woman thought players
were towering goliaths,
hulking great giants, leviathan fired
and muscled with rope.

She never thought they were all
Tiny Tom Handed – miniature darlings
with runner bean lungs’,
and tops made from boxes

of emptied out fags.
She held one up between two palms
Like a baby safe from harm –
oddly maternal.

She traced the Victory on one’s chest,
Smoothed poor Park Road’s
rained on crest, kissed Hans Solo
frowned at Real.

She hooked her post match boys
in pockets, Let one sit-up like a cravet,
took them home and sold the telly,
watched them play and didn’t tell anyone.

But let them out for Cup Days.


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