Is It a Crime?
You might ask yourself,
before resting, laying down to bed,
just a few years left,
kicking around the idea
on the football pitch in your head.
Making a substitution,
this late in the game, a final throw
you know, and you might score.
It’s not an early bath you’re giving,
if anything, it’s coming late,
punters pushing indifferent through
the turnstiles, the meshed gates,
that turn like teeth interlocking.
A fresh pair of legs on the park,
warming up and ready to go,
this finished article, plays a blinder
shoot and it’s back of the net,
you’ll put your arms around her yet,
hands upon her shoulders, neck
feeling younger, not older
and kisses all over.
You’re not doing anything shocking,
she’s seeing out the final thows
from the comfort of the changing room
oblivious - win, lose or draw.
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