The stadium is empty as a bread basket,
athletes performing to stands populated only
by a few crumpled chip wrappers
that turn and scrape in the stale, wafting breeze.
But by the gates, we are hundreds deep,
clamouring for a go through those revolving gates
we've heard so much about.
One man says he gained the power of karate
after just one spin, another, that she grew
an extra set of knees, so now her legs
fold up like a rope ladder. Lights
flash with every revolution,
as people pass through, a little electronic device
plays an instrumental version of
Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.
'Five stars,' says my mate Stanley, rubbing his palms
in the crisp evening air. 'This better be worth it.'
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