Back to last poem
Back to Peter Finch page
After 11am on Saturday
sport took over the world.
Followers’ brains
softened as they leaned into
blether about the fitness of players
and the women of managers and the
sliding of endless goals on
swathes of green across the land. 
This was all so important, you understand,
more than politics or science or love 
which had become addling messes
that would stop drink from entering
your veins if you let them.  Sport
was king, a thing we could all afford
24/7 no need for earning
or buying boots or washing
the dirt from soft faces
western money comes free
just ask and you get.
The goals went in like needles
feeding our need none of us
moving far from anywhere
full of lager like urinals.  There’s
a god out there so what we know more
than  he does.  Reruns of everything
these kitted men do from every angle,
don’t worry if you blink your eyes.