Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
At half-time in the centre circle we enjoy
a cigarette laced with something from Amsterdam.
There’s a photograph of us in that slight mist,
glistening; talk mist rises from our mouths,
and from the pursed lips of Steven who died young
is the straight blast of exhaled smoke mist.
We are each gazing in a different direction;
our red shirts are grey in the picture. We are
inside the white circle, six of us, separate
somehow, like horses, coralled together, but alone.
You can just make out the thin smoke rising
from the tip of the spliff in Steven’s hand,
outstretched to whoever wants it. No-one
leans towards him to take it. In that old
photograph, in that slight mist at half-time,
he already seems the most alone of all of us.