Shaking off the tiredness of the day
ushered black skin dayglo into concessionary parking
(it’s not Premier League you understand)
we trudge to Eastlands
side by side strangers
whose separate feelings
we don’t understand
but whose goal we share.
Parking charges upwards
through five poundland to eight poundland.
The crowd thickens, the heartbeat quickens
by pubs and scarf sellers geared and guarded
for their once in a while chance of trade and profit.
Tickets are for sale.
Queues pour from tiny windows like snakes
slowly slithering. We could complain.
It was an hour. But we’re not united.
We are City and what is a missing half?
A boy in the crowd waits to be found
amongst wannabes dreaming catapults
from limelight to spotlight.
Many moons from Titograd
to the moment of his life
a debut, two goals and a loud speaker
hailing the name Stevan Jovetic,
Number 35. Man of the Match
found and fanned to high heaven,
feelings united, everything forgotten.