paperwork

The steam locomotive whispers
up to the platform,
and we disembark. A little
sheepishly.
Beyond the clock, the panes
of glass,
it looks a lot like a gymnasium.

A football stadium.

There are rows of benches
and the grass
on the pitch is bald where we
stand; patiently,
bellies knotted and growling.

On either side,
climbing up from the dug outs,
we are separated -
wheat and chaff, home or
away - grumbling linesmen
scribbling, bored,
on contracts laid out civically.

Stamped. Filed.
Ushered off on stiff legs.

Even the children have fallen quiet.

This was the dream, a
breakfast of eunuchs, which set
me tumbling.
Sprawled on the floor at 3 AM.

Wheezing with Olympian effort.