Hammersmith Clipboards

Then I realised there is no central being,
no person in a back room with an Akashic list
or metaphysical clipboard in Hammersmith.
Ultimately, ‘Fulham’ does not exist.

No single person can validate your support;
will loyalty points cross our final threshold,
rowed over unsettled water by a ferryman courier
for passage to a packed away end

in a time or land beyond
past a turnstile guardian of allegiances,
a footballing psychopomp?

There is no embodiment of a club;
transitory players in crests on the grass
are the furthest things we have from its heart

with noble outliers rare or retired.

Is a land or person defined by a word
as place names gesture to shifting rivers
and long-forgotten visitors? There is no club
outside shared drinks at The Crabtree
over synaptic brail grids

scanned together for favourite memories or players
from the dark room of another century.