No, I’m not watching. Obviously,
I’m here in another room, writing.

During the afternoon drive, I wondered
at all the anger in the world, mine
included. Of what other use is
the ground we stand on, aside from
the planting and watering of seeds,
if not for the stamping of our feet,
the violent beating motions of our arms
as we break the earth to use it?
How hallowed is this spot with weeds,
the final resting place of our peace,
our pleasure, and our endless fury.

Sounds of the match reach my room,
no goals have yet been made.

I could make it personal. There must be
some ugly element on my face, perhaps
on my limbs, or is it the way I speak,
that disgusts those I thought loved me,
and whom I thought I loved. What are
words like ‘family’, ‘brother’, ‘home’,
when uttered with such deep hypocrisy.
But they are them, and I, unfortunately,
am me, and no degree of envy or bitterness
on their part will change that. So little
warmth is left over after half a century.

There is no need to wait for half time.
I know how the game must be played.