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 and Welsh poetry. Updated every Sunday. Also reviews of literature, films, theatre, food and drink, etc. Any support or engagement is appreciated.

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