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.
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