we're here, we're there

when two manchester united shirts pass each other on a sussex high street:

not a word is exchanged,

not a glance is shot;

when two liverpool shirts are in close proximity,

in some shopping centre,

some garden centre,

or some other outer circle

of london orbital hell:

nothing is said,

nothing is felt,

and no sparks fly;

but when a rangers man

sees a rangers man

it's all

U RRRRRRRRRssssssss

and all

hello mate

and all

long conversation

about the glorious ups

and the frequent downs

of our loftus road torments

and our

ellerslie road travails,

and

it's all

where do you drink

and

all cooke's pie and mash and all

my nan and granddad used to live

in ormiston grove

before we all moved out

to high wycombe,

to isleworth,

to northolt;

and this is close to home,

this is just in places where seeing one of our tribe

is really no big deal.

but these few lines now,

lizard scattered,

palm fringed,

they were scribbled on heat-tangled sheets,

under the blades

of a ceiling fan

that you don't dare have stop,

in a room,

of a suite,

in a place

four blocks back

from higgs beach,

key west,

florida,

just hotdogday flipflop schlepping distance

from mile marker zero

at the tie-dyed tail end

of these united states,

eighty-five miles from castro's sweltering cuba;

footsore and sun-touched,

sweaty and happy,

we climb the stairs

to an airy little bar

on duval street,

with flatbread pizzas

and two-for-one margaritas,

and a guy working there

has the remains of an english accent

and he says

"I've got that same t-shirt and

I'm from Ruislip and

I'm rangers too",

and our little QPR world

is bigger than we might be relegated

and it's better than the players don't care

and it's warmer than the setting sunrays

across town

on mallory square.