Orange-peel Man by Mike Jenkins

Small man from up the Rhymni Valley

stunted to the size

of a mining gallery.

Silver hair the shine

of a butty-can.

Walks with a limp:

no compensation.

 

Every other Saturday’s

relegation struggle, among

moaners and masochists,

behind the tallest pine tree fans

he stands. Shouts

at the players like a trainer.

 

Might as well be in blind-black

at the seam, for all he can see:

yet he knows who has the ball

(invariably the opposition!)

and flings, disgusted, orange-peel

at players who ignore his tactics,

whose wages weigh the same as him.

 

by Mike Jenkins

– from Invisible Times

Published by

MrHearne

Russian or Welsh poetry uploaded every Sunday. Reviews of literature, films, theatre, food and drink. Rambling accounts on various topics. Any support or engagement is appreciated.

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