Though the Saturdays are colder now
And the arthritis
makes holding the fag harder;
She plays.
Zipped up, rustling coat,
She calls, hoarses loudly,
bangles jangle,
“Look out for the Goal Attack!”

Her ankles and knees,
Worn to wicker,
Grind silently.
Her lungs and throat,
Scorched to dust,
Rasp.
She urges the group to success,
Starring her girl, her triumph,
And tries to group hug the team.

On the way home, they take the drive-through.
The Saturdays are colder,
and the washing still waits at home.