Dear
Tim
Dear Tim,
I am
walking beneath the night and the moonless black
and the
dog is loose and running towards the railway track
and I can
still see you, defeated but not defeated.
Did I
ever tell you my grandfather, the dead one,
played
for Everton, near lost his left arm
to a
poisoned Prince Rupert’s Tower tattoo? Your arm is a grand arm.
Dear Tim,
I don’t
like the Belgians anymore , mainly Fellaini,
and when
Lukaku scored did you regret
that time
you gave him a lift home after training. You bought him a Mars Bar.
Your
beard is glorious and subtle.
Your
hands are glorious and subtle.
I read
that soccer is a sign of your nation’s moral decline. Don’t ever decline.
Dear Tim,
Where do
you live? Is it near me? If I keep walking tonight
will I
pass your house and see it empty and lightless and cold?
As empty
as the net you guarded, for a while at least.
As
lightless as Soldier Field once the believers lost belief.
As cold
as the ice bath where you plunge your raw hands
and try
to forget the man-child De Bruyne running at you.
Dear Tim,
Don’t let
Kevin De Bruyne bring you down.
Don’t let
Romelu nark you.
Don’t let
your hands become still. Never still.
Don’t let
your nation become confused by stoppage time.
Don’t let
this night feel so heavy and dark.
Don’t let
the dog cross the railway tracks. Save him.
Michael Egan is from Liverpool. He writes poetry and fiction. He is currently working on his second collection 'Unsonnets''. He co-runs the poetry night Storm and Golden Sky. His favourite goalkeeper of all time is Michael 'Ironing-Board' Stensgaard. His favourite TEAM USA goalkeeper is probably Tony Meola. He blogs here http://michaeleganpoetry.wordpress.com
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