Untitled

Caught in the whirl of scrimmage,
the boys swarm, the greasy leather orb
flying like a heavy bird through the grey light.

He keeps on the fringe, out of the reach
of flashing eyes, rude feet and muddy boots,
legs rubbing and kicking and stamping.

His mother had told him not to speak
with the rough boys. His father had given him
two five-shilling pieces for pocket money.

After supper in the study hall, he would change
the number pasted up inside his desk
from seventy-seven to seventy-six.

Players close around, flushed and muddy.
He shivers, eyes weak and watery.
A voice on the playground: All in! All in!

——

Found poem from Chapter I of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.