Peterborough Sports

Samuel Prince

Strange men, to stand pitchside at Lincoln Road in hailstones.

Captain nosebleed toughs it out, the journeyman forward

shanks his chance, screams and throws his arms in disgust.

A shale-grey squirrel on the terrace railings holds

an ice-cream cone like a liberty torch gone sludgy, dissolute.

How it got there is neither pretty nor relevant. Same for us.

All the posters in the portable toilets feature helplines.

We call it quits and head cityward, find a dog-friendly

bar with fairy lights, naked bulbs, patio umbrellas

at quarter mast, dirtwater tipping from copper pipes.

There are things we parcel up before they unstitch us.

The River Nene runs scallion green and the centre

seems unresponsive, a mime of plywood, corkboard,

fixed odds betting and rough sleep. The triumph

of the discounters is indubitable, here in the raw pulp

of England’s gumline, its warpage and brick-dust blues.

The corner TV stutters as though it were a hospital monitor

and when we talk of our fathers we’re blaming ourselves,

just a torn book of matches away from barroom nihilism.

He recalls a proposal bouquet thrown in the harbour.

Sunk among zebra-stripe scats, the taut feeling

we’ve had this conversation before and neither of us

can face the thought of the station underpass.

All we can barter with is a Saturday’s desperation,

session ale, mixed occupancy of the mind

and stoniness of strange men, goading our obsolescence.

SAMUEL PRINCE’s poetry collection, Ulterior Atmospheres, was published in 2020 by Live Canon. His work has more recently appeared in The London Independent Story Prize Anthology 2024, the Plaza Prizes Anthology 2, Pine Hills Review, pioneertown, Rust & Moth, Twelve Rivers and Willawaw Journal. He lives in Norfolk.