#29 - Seven (by Lewis Buxton)

 
The other men fumble for a special number

something remarkable that’ll change the outcome

of the game and remind them of Sheringham,

Roy Keane, the little known Jeremy Alliadiere

 

or, most beautifully of all, the lucky seven,

which will lay on their back like the sun’s rays.

These days it’s Saka, Ronaldo, or Michael Olise

but before it was Cantona, Pires, David Beckham.

 

I’ve never gone in for that sort of thing

I’d pluck out eighteen, forty four, a bad

squad player somehow come up from the youth team.

 

Things only mean if you want them to mean,

and as I join the clutch of hands in the kit bag,

The number means nothing, only fingers brushing.

 

 

Lewis Buxton is a writer and theatre maker. His work has appeared in The Independent, Poetry Review, The Rialto, and Magma amongst others. His first collection Boy in Various Poses was published by Nine Arches Press in 2021. His new show ‘FRIEND’ is touring in Autumn 2024. He lives in Norfolk.