I start on the wing but it’s like running out on to the MCG
There’s a slight twinge in my hammy from too many church steps
I make for the centre to cut off the fast breaking anchovies
The cheese blind turns just out of my reach
The platter seems to be getting bigger the match is tight
I need the break and a nice cold orange slice
The coach is yelling I’m too loose not closing in finessing
And the captain is calling go harder Jim go harder
There seem to be Ligurian olives running free everywhere
I’m bumped hard from the blind side reeling head down
Rising at half forward the game three quarters done
The tomatoes exquisite slipping from my grasp
A Canadian from the table opposite is off to the hockey in Milano
He’s driving there mad I think but I have to concentrate
The sublime garlic is a comet passing over my head
Still a little dazed from the running charge of the forgotten spinach
Nearing the scoring end a tremble in my fork hand
A very good half litre house vino rosso nearly finished
The personal stretcher bearers of ambition flagging
A siren of last mouthful the muscle memory of basil
I told you to order the small play smart you say concerned
As I decline the Dolci and you order Tiramisu
Doubts creep in but no you just have to know when the game is over
Published in The Footy Almanac 13/2/26
James Walton Poetry 