“Gotta get back for the England match!”
“A poet like you watches twenty-two men chasing a leather object around a field?”
Not too different from me arranging words on a page to achieve something beautiful, I think.
“Well, I’ve loved football since I was a kid,” I’m cowed into replying.
“Time you grew up,” she says.
I cannot express to this bullying rationalist how the crafting of a sublime goal, the pulse and rhythm of a game, is a kind of poetry in this world available to all, for clearly this woman has no soul.