It’s All About Mike

When rusted-nausea rises,
before you and the sun,

when you sweat-in-sleep,
and wake an old woman,

when stood your bones jar,
as if dropped-from-height,

when you carpet-shuffle,
dancing Ali’s last fight,

when bending to tug on socks,
and your arced back burns,

when squatted to the loo,
thighs-cry, grimaced gurns,

when pained to turn
to butt-wipe and follow-through,

that time, your ill-words, reversed..
it will then be about You.

Post Match Report

All square, one-one,
but, still a loss
for The Seagulls:
An in-equal result
of stripe-painted
kids’ faces, briefly,
unable to pull a smile,

whilst we parents,
post-match gathered,
rolled, barbecue-fed,
with cold beer-wash,
struggled, in the sun,
with the enormity
of the task ahead:
Banoffee pie.

‘Four-hour’ Dave
puffed and laughed,
whilst Nicci smiled,
distant recall.
Mike R was forced
a second helping,
a second goal,
he’d preferred.

Such heat off
our rare-seen sun,
knocking Andy flat,
laid, but sober –
a low wall, on another,
as Charlotte gave
striped-Fred, returned,
an over-glasses warning,
his first yellow card
of the barbecue season.