Spot The Ball

The boy in the park,
fingers blue-gloved with cold,
defends a goal -

but would rather pay a tanner for ten guesses:
spot the ball,
far beyond the back of a net

that does not exist.
He runs to catch the spinning, mud-smeared globe,
which is all the world

when jeers light his lugholes red
and the beauty of the game
is how it never ends.

He cannot watch these tattoed, tribal men
and their trophy wives
without crying for his mum

and wanting to go home for tea.
He still hears fucking useless shite
and expects to be picked last.