an ‘exchange’
¶ 1
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is what john motson would have called it:
a ‘fracas’, a ‘rut’, perhaps making reference
to ‘handbags at ten paces’; their ugly number seven,
with his paul nicholas hairdo & the birdshit highlights,
& me, the great pacifist, with a momentary lapse;
our respective frowns knitted like gear cogs, our mouths
forming statements our mothers wouldn’t like.
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