His fingers cradle the precious black box,
One finger fine tunes the dial,
Thin black wire twists and winds its way
Up to the little ear piece, sunk
Snuggly in place.
His face, a picture of ecstasy,
Oblivious to the comings and goings,
The chitter chatter of friends and strangers
Surrounding him in the bar.
All he hears are intimacies
Of the commentator
Drawing him in and up
To some celestial mountain top.
Offering him the only world worth being in.
The world spread out below,
The stretch of wet, green grass,
Muddied boots chasing the ball.
The goal is scored, the crowd has roared,
Bewitched and entranced he takes the chance,
Grasps the offering, lets his mind dance,
Drinking in mind pictures and sounds,
To quench a thirst no pub pint can satisfy.
The whistle blows, players leave the pitch,
The commentator's voice winding down,
Winding int through the thin black wire that
Connects to the precious black box,
Cradled in those hands.
One finger reaches a switch,
Game over, click.
He reluctantly takes the ear piece out,
Oblivious to the racist chanting
Unmentioned by the commentators,
Who turned the microphones down.
A friend at the bar shouts a greeting,
Let the game of life begin.
© Kate McCue