The Red Sea Parted
AM120514
The mob scuffled their feet in
the dirt as if they had been forced
to wait an extra half hour before
lunch was being served, schoolboys
resorting to punching each other
in the arm to pass the time.
Old, decrepit, wrinkled women
lay in wait, having all their erotic allure
hidden in bottles of Sprite, Fanta and
Coca-Cola, once the game was over
they offered beer.
Smoke lay thick from the asados; embers
burning and blowing in the wind,
miles and miles of linked sausage
and huge slabs of various parts
of a steer lay sizzling on metal, dripping
fat and calling out to our
olfactory-induced urges.
Soon the mob began to form a line
from a signal I was unable to perceive,
firecrackers in the distance signaled
something was about to begin.
The lines formed but all was not
well, leering eyes, greedy with the
prospect of crumpled bills stuffed
in pockets hastily,
followed by last-minute discarding
of rings and bracelets,
the lines moved, terribly they moved,
we, like lambs being led to the slaughter
could do nothing more than follow
blindly, bleating would have been a
mistake as it would have just singled
us out.
A line of riot police walked slowly
by, shields and clubs at the ready,
faces withdrawn but I could only
feel their hope that we would make one
small mistake and they would receive
the green light to smash our heads.
The 'friend' with the beady eyes and
the hooked nose appeared from nowhere
and handed us fake ID cards,
while quickly pocketing our pesos
we had discreetly handed him.
As if by magic we followed him into
the stadium, he could have parted
the Red Sea for us, his semitic looks
adding to my own vision of Moses.
Up so many stairs we arrived at a massive
height in the midst of so many smells,
marijuana, tobacco, urine and chorizos
mixed with body odor, bad breath
and so much adrenaline and testosterone,
too much.
We sat, packed like sardines and awaited
the outcome, after much fanfare the game
had begun,
One hour and a half later,
Boca 0 - Velez Sarsfield 0 .
