Get In!

Get In!

Feel that? Just then - as it was
buried. In the back of the net

His grin wider than a football pitch

stitched from this terrace to the world next door,

a trace at my elbow, as ever, an itch.

Just a ghost, whispering: did you see that?

Young boy. Hardly the finished article.

Getting away with it.

He took it down, down.

Chested it to the ground,

right foot, left peg, flicked onto his bonce.

Bulging out of the onion bag and that keeper left pulling up daisies.
Egg on his face, grimy fingers
and wishing he's anywhere but this place.

Well, how could I forget?

In that second, both of us,

grinning, winning.

A connection, a memory, and there was

oceans of space, left field, because he dragged the defence across

leaving behind a wake of grass and moss.

Just a stone

left alone.

Hit the bar, open goal, catenaccio a go-go.

Beckham pulling out of that flying tackle.

Rooney limping with a metatarsal.

You threw your hands at the screen,
shouted something obscene

and we’re out of the cup.
Thirty years of hurt, tough luck.

So:

Build it up, from the ground

root and branch review

and we tasked them until they knew.

Getting away with it.
Well, you know we were.

Cut back. Skip that track.

Points to a train pulling out of Charlton, after the game

and I laughed when you told me you were sick with pain

and you fireworked my chest until I abstain.

It hurt. Then you wept. Well how could I forget

the music? But next year, last year

until somehow, somewhere, you were just not ever here,

just a voice in my ear whispering.

And you left me there.

Just a trace.