Who grieves for Jimmy Greaves?
Me, in the memory of foot stamping cold
on the terraces in flares, snotty nosed
in the early seventies
walking from Walthamstow,
a dedicated crowd trudging to the ground.
Me, for my own self struggling with a career,
seeing cigarette smoke rising to a grey sky,
the threat and promise of goals
often nothing but a plunge of dead hands into pockets
and unaware tears joining the flow spilling out
of the ground like an open prison
to watch Match of the Day
on black and white telly all over again.;