Poise

The cycling craze is upon us.
Living in our skin of Lycra,
Therapy in repetition of our knees,
The road’s song and its scholar
Teach us a halt

Is not acceptable; for if you stop
You have only your legs,
No matter how shapely, to fight
Inertia.  The lead unto temptation is inevitable
Running lights, runaway, through
A mechanical economical gradient
Down to imaginary equilibrium.

Punctuated.

I cannot hate you I am prey
To it myself.  But if you cannot believe
My evolution, I cannot credit yours.
The climate of opinion values a bushy
Authenticity because of too many facts
Statistically getting in the way of the truth.  The truth is
I am sick of you.  You cant you box you
Ride triumphal through the arches –
No hands, Ma –
While we stand mesmerised by the drugs
You do not have to take to crash
Or crash through our living
Rooms. Your ambition at once too big and too
Small.  Just whatever it takes to get you
Through the amber lights.

Organ donor.

There.  I am losing it just like you.
Let us relaunch our poor poise or
Be just history.

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