This city doesn’t care
about the football match I’m watching alone.
It’s on silently in the corner of the pub,
my commenters are Duran Duran
and the sound of pool balls clinking.
An impressive save is made
and the crowd are ice cubes
clapping in a pitcher of red cocktail.
A man is eating a slice of gammon
the size of a centre circle
with his back to his wife.
There is an exit sign next to the TV
that feels like home.
Duran Duran just got turned off,
the commentary is getting louder.
Gary Neville is talking the language of the carpet.
The gammon has gone.
The man has his arm around his wife.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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