Too many fires in the homeland.
Dad still speaks Greek in his sleep.
When he wakes he asks me outside, 
stands between goal posts shakes 

the tired from his knees and directs
footwork on the hard-caked earth.
He asks me to score a single goal
and I won’t.

For three hours, we script a language 
of kicks and dives. Sinews strain
with each ball ricocheting towards the house.
Somewhere, the sun sets behind trees,

twists clouds into flames.
We both pause, to watch, while listening,
as I do now, for the strange screech 
of the phone between the thump of kick and catch.