As a Boy

As a boy I was always the last to be picked and quite often I wasn't chosen at all. Standing there, thin as a pencil, shivering, hands in my pockets, my face as stained and awkward as an ill fitting bed sheet. I used to shuffle my feet while I waited and had this thing where I'd chew the inside of my mouth but a passing cat had more chance of being picked for the kickabout at the end of my street.


I grew up and left those days behind me and now I find myself waiting for bigger but less inspiring things, like my wage on the last Thursday of the month or my dentist appointment or the lottery results. I am always waiting. I think we are all waiting for something or somebody to swoop down from the sky and rescue us.



But deep down I'm still standing with my hands in my pockets, chewing my mouth, while everybody else kicks the ball down the road.