The number 38 takes me past
White washed walls
Flaking red paint and rust of turnstiles
To catch a glimpse of the north terrace
Nicknamed “The Kop”
I stand on the bus seat
To see through a gap in the trees
The number 38 drops me with the crowd
Husbands whose duty is done
Hurrying from the city centre
To join fans already in
Some have paid an extra pound
Sitting in the seats from the old cinema
Waiting on the timeless matinee
The number 38 delivers me to counter culture
As I stand close to the back, watching
The Punks, the rockers, mods, skins
Would be Morrisseys, all sing
Buddy Holly songs
With a man and a guitar
The number 38 casts me in a bbc documentary
As the swap of ends at half time
Sees the fila trackies
Throwing never landing punches
Towards snapping crocodiles
And flapping eagles
As the home town bullies
Get chased by bigger town bullies
Who always have better trainers
The number 38 drives past
There is no crowds, no rusting turnstyles
Or a whitewashed wall
There is no matinee as time has expired
No need to stand on the bus seat
To see through the gap in the trees
It’s now only houses and not a home.