And just when everything seems fine finds its place
the children the plants the newspapers
the grass the washing up almost completely done
jackets on the coat hooks matching shoes
together and you want to inhale – some kind of rest –
you see a crowd rising from their seats
in a stadium out of the corner of your eye. Rising
as one man. Raising their arms and cheering.
How ten thousand tongues move as in one
toothless open gob. Men slide
across the pitch and behave according to the rules
inside and outside the lines controlled by a ball
and a penalty spot. The world comes so close that you
want to wipe the sweat from Robbe’s forehead and see
rage roll in Ribéry’s eyes. Concentration
on the calves until the cameras swerve
and a crowd sinks back onto its seats.
And just as you want to exhale – some kind of annoyance –
a chill stronger than rules and lines rolls into
the house a draught between the bodies
that in repetition rise slowly and snapping for sound
around the feet. We stay put.
Put our faith in extra time.