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Real Life

michael spring

Monday, November 8th, 2004

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 The Silverlink metro service that morning
Was as slow as a Faroes centre-half,
And as tidy as a Scottish goalkeeper.
Sleepy-eyed Roumanians laughed into
Mobile phones. Poles quietly inspected
Paint brushes. Big black guys
Looked at their steel capped boots.
The train creaked into Gunnersbury
Squealing like an Argentinian winger
Who had just been breathed on
By a Nigerian full back.
The miscellaneous passengers
Many of whom, at seven am,
Looked like they had been
Man-marking Zinedine Zidane
For much of the night, while plastering,
And gargling with tomato ketchup,
Scurried toward the exits, as miserable
As a phalanx of home supporters who
Had witnessed their side beaten on penalties
By a side from the Ryman’s.
Another Monday, and none of these journeymen
Would this week be picking up fifty k
For nodding one in at the far post
In the opening minutes of a European tie.
Another Monday.
But no racehorses to worry about,
And no being taken for a ride
By a greasy-palmed agent who
Once played for Kingstonian extra B.
No worries either, about whether
To buy the BMW or the Bentley
Out of this week’s bonus,
Or the golf handicap or creatine.
True, there will be no going to
Turf Moor or Sincil Bank for an
FA Cup midweek game, to be
Played in horizontal sleet
On a pitch that looks like it was
Prepared by Cadburys.
But even that I suspect, is no
Consolation for this Monday morning.

© michael spring

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/real-life/