Watching the Boys Play Rugby
like flies swarming
in black tidal pools or
a milky way of sluts in short
shorts and long socks, Catholic
schoolboys teasing each other
in the scrum. Bull-headed matadors
depending on the score. The music
of bones in their noses all smashed
and spitty like pop rock candy.
Make a pit-stop at the dairy,
buy a scoop of chips to throw
at the seagulls who can’t be scared off,
red-eyed demons watching
the boys play rugby. Eat too much or
not enough. Throats dry but mouths
open and over-glossed
when the game is over, and the boys
come orbiting the car
with pale moon faces, either
luminous or crumbling.