being a keeper. Shots flew
straight over me into grown-up nets
and once, somewhat unsure
of the back-pass rule,
I picked the ball up.
I didn’t live it down.
Being a keeper meant
lonely Sunday mornings
on outsized windy fields,
pacing the goalmouth,
spitting on my gloves.
And now, in pubs and restaurants,
at meetings and parties,
that keeper’s still waiting,
poised and alone.
The past is the goalposts
which he keeps, which he guards,
and later, in his notebook,
he’ll dive for the words.
