He goes for the goal, gets the cleat instead.

He falls to the ground clutching his shin;

Blood seeping between his fingers,

Cries pouring from his lips.

No one on the field goes to help him,

To move him, to comfort him. 

To the others, he’s a pylon;

Flattened by a wheel.

Something to ignore, to avoid, 

Leave lying in its rightful place.

And I wonder if they’ve forgotten compassion.

If the feeling was flushed to sea with freedom,

With opinion, with choice.

And so I stand.

Make a stand.

Don’t know what else to do.

Can’t see another’s grief and not seek 

For kind relief.

I am told to sit down.

To them, fair is the weather, fair is a complexion;

Fair is not something you are,

Something you do.

The young boy hobbles off.

The game starts again.

But it’s not the game I was watching before.