He hasn’t scored for nearly six weeks,
his goal bonus sits in the coffers
of a club he can’t remember signing for.
He’s read a bit too much
about the side effects of heading a ball
and the lads on the wings just can’t
get it to his feet. There’s a good chance
his legs aren’t getting him to the box
as fast as they used to. His mind wanders.
When he pulls on the famous white shirt
he thinks about the gods that once wore it.
He looks up at the clouds when the whistle goes
and thinks he can hear them talking
about how they always pictured him in goal
with arms like that. His mind wanders.
He likes looking at the grass. His mind wanders.

© Carl Burkitt 2023