We once had a dirt and a grass, but we have
exchanged it for a concrete, and it’s
good, and it’s
of no consequence.

I’ll chase a ball fast and treat a concrete
as if it had give like a mud, and I’ll
cut left and right and break hard
until my carpal pads tear
and bleed.

A surface is only atoms, and I am committed
to a play situation above all else.
I am oblivious to a pain
disturbance. My head is
a white noise roller-coaster ride.

There are five layers of skin on a
bitch’s pad — look it up. And I’d
lose all of them
if confronted with a good enough game.

Of rope.
Or ball.
Single-minded, innit.

And the Bald Man, that bastard has
a never-ending distraction drop
running through the
maze of his
prefrontal cortex.

And even with shoes and gloves covering his soft
white skin, he can’t be fucked to
run after a thing he has
loved, can’t be brought to
hold fast to a rope more than a second or two.

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