ORANGES Poem by Michael Laskey

Brought to us on a plate
at half time by the linesman,
we break from the pep talk —
he wants us quicker
at the rucks, more possession —
and jostle for choice of slice,
suck them, make gumshields of them,
or thumbing them inside out
we gnaw the last shreds of flesh
off the peel, wipe our hands
on our shorts, on Gorringe's shirt.
Our perks, our just deserts,
not given a second thought
as we spread out, take up our positions
for the start of the second half.