Fifty Two Today – Fifty Two Minutes

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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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