CCIII - The Round Ball

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The Round Ball

I thought, wrongly as it turns out,
That Castro’s island, blockaded and small
Would offer some protection
From the nonsense that is football.

“Where are you from?” the waiter asks.
My answer draws a look, half smirk half pity.
Obviously we are, in football terms,
Country kids, come to see the city.

But this to me is not a bad thing,
The sooner we’re are out, the better.
I have no time for the fretful press
With opinions, photos and letters.

Back home, I could see the headlines
As Rupert’s attack dogs would be let out:
Indignant, biting, vengeful;
And “Sack them all!” the pack will shout.

But late at night, down in the plaza,
Not far from our hotel room,
Happy kids kick a ball in the dust
As a band puts out a blues tune.

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© J Cosmo Newbery
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