Never Crouch, Peter

Peter, you unusual man,
the surprising maths of your skull,
Pythagoras blushing
at your ratios, but I am thankful
because of the phrase:
good touch for a big man
and you and I must surely
have won our primary school’s
under-nine heading competition:
Peter, I won it.

And subsequently, my legs
aimed for dresses, my bi-curious
legs, my meddlesome feet
clattering like hockey sticks
between the legs of flat-footed
full backs. I have scored more goals
than I care to mention by conjuring
an unseen wedge of thigh
from low-hung shorts.

They cannot believe it:
this is not natural, they say,
this impossible extension,
this pointless evolution.
And we pretend to be ashamed,
Peter, but we’re not ashamed.
If I should chance to see you
in a crowded bar, surrounded by flunkies,
we will share a moment together,
above the heads of our peers.