So the desert sky would not welcome him,
a life threaded by the chains of a Kafala weaver.
Yet a dusty cloud hung over him like a looming
threat of skylines sprawling the roads to stadiums
that blossomed from the beads of his sweat.
An outcast among tourists and fans, untouchable,
as a leper that wears shame like a jersey
from a keeper who lets in a barrage of goals.
They passed by him, without a glance,
their gaze focused on the digital billboard
splashing images of Messi and Jesus
juggling a ball in a say no to racism ad.
I passed by him too, clutching my copy
of Marx’s Capital, with a divider between
pages that warned of a laborer’s alienation.
A fevered World Cup in the theatre of the unwanted.