The unemployed football manager is eating
a pain au chocolat. He’s lined his wallet, keys,
phone and glasses case up in a trusty flat back four
on the rectangle table in the café. I imagine
microphones being shoved in his face,
customers turning into journalists asking him
why yet another club dismissed him. They will
question his capabilities and he will rub his
surgically repaired knee with a nervous palm.
They will not bring up the three years he spent
in a town he’d never met and how he
dragged them up a division beyond their means
and the two afternoons he let the fans drink
cold beers in Wembley’s sunshine. He starts
watching highlights of last night’s game
on his phone, scribbling notes on a napkin,
as pastry flakes trickle off his stubble
like ideas falling into place.

© Carl Burkitt 2023