Adrian Loses His Voice
Ask my name on match day
and I’ll tell you
the blue stripes of this Nylon shirt
bleed through to the skin. No more.
I won’t fill the blank application form
dividing us with talk of what I do
between rush hour train journeys.
But ask who I am and I’ll show you
A chorus of men, thousands strong,
praying for glory, baying expletives
at smirking enemies—
friends before the turnstile clicked
this world into existence.
As for why I ransom my hope
to a sphere of stitched hexagons?
Wait for the hush
before a perfectly timed strike ripples white mesh,
and tell me your ribs are not tuning forks, struck.
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