​Les Wicks (Australia)

​The World Is Sport 
​
My first girlfriend
was the school’s best cricketer. I learnt my place
as she bowled me for a duck every lunchtime.
 
On the high school’s cross country run
the indigenous kid Mick lurked in the gully, 
beat us weaklings righteously as we
wheezed towards resolution across his land.
The school captain election was between
the sports star, the smartie
& the anarchist weed supplier (me).
It was no contest.
 
In Ulindu the President lands on the pitch
by helicopter, security fans out
& the national team stop training
to accept honorifics. Like, one is proud
but scared shitless better beat Ghana next week
or the promised new car will drive you to your death.
General Rala loves every minute, these wars are cheap.
 
Flesh is a commodity.
Rich, indifferent men buy teams
& barrio boys all dream of exit…
the model wife, new teeth.
They bet their bones.
 
The arts enclave of every city has its physicalities --
feather-touch football, barefoot bowls where
the teams are named after robust cabernets.
 
In Australian business
warming up to next big negotiation,
in a sort of fiscal pre-match entertainment,
they discuss the latest team scores.
Men & women both, it’s a glue
to help agendas appear to be indistinguishable.
 
There is an idea about
that we have grown too
cerebral & lazy. Worriers don’t make warriors.
Always wearing their sunscreen
most modern players will never achieve
a single good ferocity.