Futbol

Another World Cup game on display.
The barista grins, "regulars", shaking his head,
and carries on with co-workers.
“You really get into this, don't you?”
On the patio, I marvel at Robinho,
the scorching afternoon cannot match
his knack for happenstance and soft tap
of a black shoe that pierces
the finest cracks.
He glides ahead of yellow-shirted comrades,
forehead laced with brooks of sweat
like champagne,
peerless, triumphant.

Of course I have a taste for excellence,
my sleepy limbs tremble
before a dash of libertine flair,
but I am too unpracticed,
I manhandle the ball,
and fear my lungs are ruined.

Wittgenstein once remarked
that he created his own oxygen—had to—
he lived in the heights, surveying affairs from a lonely bivouac.
I may be winded now,
last week my dear friend
accused me of cliche,
but retreat to the musty corridors of scholarship
is unbearable.
To inhale brisk air, romp on the pitch, and attack the goal,
is my last stand
and point of departure.