And we’re off! For the month of madness which is National Poetry Writing Month. I tend to post a day behind the prompts which come through, writing in the evening, posting in the morning, so I’m kicking off the month with a poem I wrote as part of one of Elaine’s Happy Planet workshops, tidied up last night.
Fifteen minutes a day
(After ‘My System’ by Lieut. J.P. Muller)
“Illness is generally one’s own fault”
He is waiting for the train.
He is seemingly always waiting for the train.
Bored, his eyes stray to the latest release,
handed to him by an equally bored colleague.
“Fifteen minutes’ exercise a day” promises:
a body that belongs in the Louvre,
carved into pristine marble, marvelled at
by snaking lines of admiring eyes.
Fifteen minutes a day and he’ll get the girl,
who smiled at him, once, and lit up his life.
Fifteen minutes a day to a whirlwind romance,
stolen kisses beneath the Eiffel Tower,
and beaching on the Languedoc, not Long Sands.
“So what ought we to do?”
The minutes click by, counting down
as he plans the attach on himself.
He tries to be subtle, circling his trunk
whilst his mind circles the globe,
the smiling girl, clutching at his arm,
now suitably, certainly defined.
He holds in his stomach, holds in his breath,
as the girl approaches, smiling, as always.
For now, she walks past, but he can bide his time –
can wait in line.
He catches her eye, returns her smile,
taps the book, snug, close to his heart.