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The Dressing Room

Jon Tait

Wednesday, March 18th, 2009

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Sharp clack of studs on the cold concrete floor
like pit ponies hooves in the darkness,
the smell of deep heat & stale hops & sweat
rolls of bandages & black insulating tape,
the silky touch of a shirt pulled from the kit bag
with it’s guts spilled open in the middle of the floor
-I’ll only wear 3 or 7 or 10, gaffer;
little superstitious rituals, the lucky Y-fronts,
watches & rings collected in the manager’s pocket
& he says – Get tight to ya man, get stuck in from the off,
Divn’t dee nowt fancy, Get it up the park;
Nervous laughter, nodding, & the clapping of hands
as the door swings open
& we jog onto the turf
with stomachs doing little flips.

Notes

Editor :Great North Eastern/Western? wind and maybe sea-swept imagery in your poems Crispin..

Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-dressing-room/