09
The Perch

Walking through the dim lights
and dust motes of the trophy room,
Rafa stopped at the championships:
eighteen, but no premier leagues.
All that glory: has-been,
bought in the old money.
And now always the Gods fucking with the finances!
Americanos! Puta madres!

He looked at that last one:
the perch.
& in his minds-eye he saw the lads,
wounded liver birds,
wading through the weed of a low tide,
hobbled by history,
& hoped ... would these new wings be enough
to lift them out the mud ... the myth?