26 Sep 10
and in the shop…
pamphlet collection –
“Hearing Ourselves Think”
in anthology –
A gunshot in a one-horse town
is the clack of the latch
of her garden gate. Starlings flit
to the pylons. Boundary hawthorns stir.
Our trailing feet brake the roundabout.
Lithe and angular with a paprika Afro,
she jigs behind a World Cup football.
Forty keep-ups then shooting-in;
Rigger’s drawn the short straw,
paddles in the crater beneath the crossbar,
always fooled by her touch.
The ball gummed to the criss-cross
lacing of her left boot, I’m wrong-
footed by her step-over,
undone by her nutmeg.
Simple passing long after the Evening Sentinels
have been posted and the three blind mice run off
with Giannassi’s Ices, until paraffin heat
sweats greenhouse panes and empty buses
flicker between the houses like cine film.
Tonight, the stone I dribble along the pavement
won’t escape me. I turn for home,
head full of those orange freckles
coming out like stars, of boots like hers,
Pumas with the white flash.