Painted faces tilt back.
Pint-if-we-win-wristbands
adopt Hear No Evil pose
with mouths lying unhinged
in disbelief that he hasn’t scored.
One supporter makes a dugout
from a table, grateful
for cellulite and pungent sneakers
than watching what these underachievers
have to offer.
Tuesday night live football
spent applauding screens
as if they were in the stadiums
where the teams
could actually hear them
singing all the wrong words
to the national anthem.
Half-time half-pies
are served in grease-doused napkins,
worn like Ku Klux Klan mannequins
(Minus the racism
or burning crosses)
to boys as bloodless as Gary Numan.
Only the occasional belch
discerns them as human.
The illusion of live football
comes air-conditioned,
sponsored by Carling
between two large cushions
on a large television
with someone else’s opinions,
commentating.