Fifty Two Today – Fifty Two Minutes

7:16
Do not mix lager with bitter, for sure.
The eldest, clumping, above, top floor.
Grey sky-sheeted, curtains tug-pulled.
Fifty-two today, my annual award.

7:20
We need another, stiffer loo brush.
The fixed drain works – sucking gush.
That shampoo I prefer is running low.
Reflux-rising, this hack won’t go.

7:24
I must do laundry, perhaps this morning.
Neck hairs so need tweezered-pulling.
That switch does not turn off that light.
Did I lock-up the shed last night?

7:28
Cooled smell of weed’ll be hard to explain.
No screaming emails to add to my strain.
I’ve still to mount those solar floods.
Should’ve planted the daffs in tubs.

7:32
Driveway gates hang, more to my liking.
Today is bin day, it must be recycling.
Wobbling paper boy, on his mobile phone.
I’ve no wireless this far from home.

7:36
School kids missing, holiday times.
Listen, foul child, I can hear her cries.
Litter count so low on the twitten today.
Darkened leaves piled, rank in decay.

7:40
The cafe’s shut, too early it seems.
A slow recall-woken, disturbing dream.
My magnetic gym card, hard-wiped to work.
Absolute Radio, not the Ginger Twerp.

7:44
These trainers need time, more wearing in.
I sat-cycled, pedalling, much less pain.
This metal flask keeps tap water cool.
Treadmill’s quick stripes margin my fall.

7:48
Kate Bush singing, unrequited, heart-bled.
I sweat harder with hangovered-head.
Cycling again, easier when writing.
Extension repetition, aged muscles-fighting.

7:52
Running out of time for breakfast in town.
‘Bye at the exit, desk-dropped frowns.
Playing field to mow, lugged tractors await.
The bypass hums louder way before eight.

7:56
Another tipped fence, short-battered storm.
A shed roof bared, felt roughly torn.
Bird song increases along Linden Chase.
I wonder who’ll buy the old dear’s place?

8:00
Quick pocket-pat, I’ve got everything.
My stride shortened, still heel-scuffing.
Slid gravel re-routes me to a distant beach.
Fifteen Harvey’s bottles, deposit on each.

8:04
Soffits need painting, I cannot do heights.
The back door, and the frame, do not sit right.
This home, slumped silence, weight-swung times.
Eight minutes late, for Big Ben chimes.

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