(Three years on from Rosenborg)
I’m here to you tell it’s over, to tell you
this is it, and thanks for the good times.
But seriously, this is it. Then you left me.
I watched as the open door wobbled
in the breeze of your departure,
and stared at the cardboard box,
with Naked Wines on the side
with naked memories inside
jumbled and jarred
randomly lifted from dreams
crumbled and lost
when Rangers beat Celtic.
I knew then it was over
but continued in denial
for weeks, until the season ended.
I knew then you’d
be here with our things /
the flight tickets to Oslo,
the Trondheim room service bill,
the dodgy Viking hat,
the Es-Es flag, the cuckoo clock
and the beer mats we shared
across the best tables, everywhere
anywhere, as long as it was out there.
It’s been three years, noise
and laughter, tough shifts
and long, glorious trips since
Rosenborg, since we topped it,
never to better it, unless
we won the Cup, like
that was ever going to happen.
I watch you sit with them
from Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh.
I want you to be with me, be attentive
but you tell me, I’m not qualified.
You’ll speak to me again when I am.
I watch you count the co-efficient
without me, talk down my chances.
I should slam the door on you but
I can’t do it. I know you’ll be back.
I leave the door wedged open
with a UEFA Cup Travel Guide 16/17.
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