Match Day
When all we've known is how to summon a crowd to swell up into prayer,
it’s no surprise that on a weekend like this one
we are using our language to weave a match day chant,
slam poetry,
war cry,
a beat to dance by,
a welling up of sour bile for that crawling ball,
for that swollen stomach,
beer belly juggernaut parade.
When our far-flung trains interlock at our heart,
as fingers weaving in a supplicating prayer,
telling you,
'We are here,'
in each locomotive puff of black breath,
'like we once were with our fathers.'
Poking fingers into the small of our backs, swelling our pain
Into the chant of the juggernaut parade,
our pilgrimage to St James.
It's no surprise that on a weekend like this one,
when we’re buying a match day magazine from a smoking spiderman,
who is telling us,
'We are here,'
that we are here to drink,
but not to drink as losers,
because to drink as losers is not to drink at all,
but to drown the drought left by the prayers in our throats.
We won't choke on our chants,
so it's no surprise that on a weekend like this one,
when the city swells up like an in-drawn breath,
pumping us around the streets like clots of coal,
that we're here to pray for a day of luck,
and maybe, some of us, a day or two more.
A pride to pray by.
To swell us to our victory,
To land,
To exhale,
To thank God,
To pack our chests with this pride,
And to go home.
