This time of the summer when the rains are home
I sit awkwardly with my lap dog,
he is a curious one just like
What's that sound? What's that fuss?
What does it mean?
Why do they all run?
This is fun.
My dog seems happy. Perhaps, he senses
comradeship in play.He senses comrades
in players. I deny him play.
My city denies him the green grass. So he
jumps between sofas and beds, chasing
tennis balls, that weren't meant for him.
The signal ricochets between layers of the
atmoshpere, this live television thing is
history too, you know,
seconds lost in moments
of satellite transit.
This time of the summer when rains are home,
an emaciated child with magic feet sits
in his little home by the slum, singing
prayers to Jesus. One day he will get on that zeppelin,
but today mother is sick. There's carnivale for his
kind. It has come to the town.
He seems happy today. There's a big match in
the Maracana. The rains keep on falling down,
and in the magical Americas sometimes they even
go up, only if you want it to.
He wants to play. He is ready.
The city gives him dirty mottled
streets. So he scuttles along- and chases chickens,
and kicks the ball wherever he wants it to land.
Do they deny him?
Between football matches and effeminate
ginger talks, inebriations occur.
Here in my head,
its three fold.
(Don't pity classifications,
how will you love otherwise?)
The first one is like the Mexican wave when
alternating parts of the brain rise and fall
between highs and lows.
The second one is like the dribble that conquers
any defense- like an unguent of love,
it soothes the heart.
Like the audience that makes the game,
the third one is this delirium that make
me scribble puny words on rainy
when the footballers have gone home,
when some dreams have broken and
some dreams have come true,
when some prayers have been answered,
when I had time to run across a green
field into the arms of your
sometimes playing ball,
sometimes chasing it,
just like the life that we so wanted,
please don't deny