Oilskin keeping out the cold

the muscles in his legs wearing down

through the under 12s, netball, under 14s,

under 18s, reserves and finally seniors around two.

A job we all expect somebody to do.

A man who complements the scene

of cars nosed up to the boundary fence,

kids walking around with a piece of cardboard

displaying the winning raffle ticket.

Panicked voices rifling through the air –

kick it Moorey. The crowd by the clubrooms

groaning like an ancient ship – red faces, stubbie holders,

Club jackets sponsored by local businesses,

a gathering necessary as a pie from the canteen.

Certain women cheerfully hand over Cherry Ripes,

polystyrene cups with scalding tea. Each person

connected through marriage, kinder, school

or just plain proximity. Generations of neighbours

realizing their duty, lives flowing through moments

of a job – somebody has to blow the siren,

somebody has to cut up oranges into quarters,

somebody has to collect the footy after it sails

over Monk’s barbed wire fence,

somebody has to sit in a car with kids climbing over seats.

It is a scene that swells through the afternoon

like the feet of the man on the gate

shifting his weight on the gravel,

puffy, arthritic fingers fumbling

with the texture of crisp notes.

A small town’s investment in belief.

A community finding something to do.

Each year, he says, will be the last.