neglected one, you may think.

Where I read half a page of life,

and half a page of words about life.

Their lives, crumbled  on 74 pages,

their words about life,

crumbled on 74 pages.

On the last page the context

reveals their names to me.

They are of no special meaning

to the sweaty football player.

Their 74 faces will never advertise

shampoo in the intersect between

the beginning and the ending

of a film about life.

But their words sold life to me.

At a very cheap price.

Words which assured me

I am not wrong when he says:

Poetry is only scribbles on paper.