His road bike is suspended
on a skinny plinth on his driveway,
the perfect height
to slip a tea towel through the spokes,
hold it at either end,
and slide it left and right
like he’s flossing a crocodile.
His calves look yummy,
toffee apples below the rear of his knees.
His eyes are soft boiled eggs,
his fingers are soldiers,
morning doesn’t mean a thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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