Two new poems from David Whippman

IT COULD BE YOU

The lottery stake leaves a hole in her budget.
Of course, her chance of winning is low,
Almost nil – but she doesn't know.
Maths was never her strong subject.

Meanwhile, her period is late:
She's going to have another kid.
It's ages since she's seen its dad.
Again, the numbers don't fall right.

That's her fifth child if anyone's counting.
Some of the fathers keep in touch.
They give her grief but never cash.
The odds against her keep on mounting.

This week's rollover was won
By a couple who are middle class
With good careers and a posh address.
They played it just the once, for fun.





KNOCK ON

A winter afternoon; hands numb with cold,
I stand there shivering on the rugby field,
Twelve years old and trying to be unnoticed.
No worries: I am always the last one picked,
My jersey sleeves too long, my boots too big.
I’m nowhere near the ball, but even so
Somebody knocks me into freezing mud.
This is trench warfare for pre-adolescents,
Incomprehensible, my own little Somme.
One of my teammates is yelling in my face,
I’m cursed for some infringement of the rules:
Those rules, unknowable as algebra.

Most of a lifetime away from that cold field
I stand on the touchlines, feeling vaguely injured
(Broken relationships, a failed career.)
Tries and conversions are happening elsewhere,
Pats on the back and camaraderie.
They're all successful even though they're fools.
But then, I never understood the rules.

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