This poem was published in Issue 44 and we are re-publishing here to celebrate World Poetry Day

On a chance meeting with the former England midfielder at a pub in Leicester

I never planned to write a poem
about England’s greatest ever footballer
absolutely fucked
in Leicester Market
buying King Size Rizla from a head stall,
but here we are, on a hot day in June,
the anonymous drunk in stonewash denim,
cutting through the crowd with a ball at his feet,
in my mind, at least, like the goal that he scored
when he shot down the Scots
with a volley in the sun. All around the ground
you could hear his name. From a dentist’s chair
to the fabled tunnel, to a shit city pub
where the men measure time by the emptied pint.
Paul. Paul, mate. Can I get you a taxi or something?
The boy who cried in Turin. The knockabout clown
with a gift from God, washed in booze
and lost. I’m grand, man. Grand.
He patted my back and grabbed my arm,
brushing off a tackle. I left him in the pub
with a pocketful of cash, chucking notes at the staff
like snow.

Nicholas Hogg is the author of Show Me the Sky, nominated for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and Tokyo, now in  development as a film with Ridley Scott. He was the winner of the 2021 Gregory O’Donoghue Poetry Prize. @nicholas_hogg