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:
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