The man sits in the pub
with the wardrobe of a football pundit:
navy blue chinos, salmon shirt,
trainers pretending to be shoes.
The froth of bitter snows
from his moustache while he nods
to his own opinions
They just need to clear their lines.
The fullbacks need to sit.
The keeper can’t command his box.
The barman, all skull tattoos and flesh tunnels,
gently puts his book on the bar and says
I love the way Phil Foden floats
as if the pitch doesn’t deserve him.
The man crunches a dry roasted peanut.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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