A Poem by Andrew McMillan

football manager

since all men want control but not the real

responsibility of power

we find ourselves here each small circle

a man to move into position

train give talkings to put values on

and as the days and seasons slip (you get

40 then you’re done) you start imagining

you could really do it edge the touchline

like a tanker slow react to prove your calm

in the storm of the game and at halftime

you see yourself walking to the changing room

everyone turning a wet towel of silence

dropping and just like when you were twelve

sitting with a friend in the floodlight glow

of the PC screen taking turns to try

and win you’ll put your hands together

say come on lads if not for me then for yourselves

and if not yourselves then for your dads

and if not your dads then for your town

Andrew McMillan’s three poetry collections are physical, playtime and pandemonium. He lives in Manchester.