It’s a foul, of course it’s a foul. You can’t do that.

He rummages in his Stockport County backpack
for his bag of Wine Gums, something sweet
to replace the tone on his tongue
as the pony tail of one his sons bobs
in the tense breeze in the stands and the other asks,
yet again, what the Liverpool score is.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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