Two anvils are taking turns
clanging on to tarmac.
Breath is punching out of a dry mouth.
The broom that lives at number 36
is scratch-scratching the leaves
to clear a path way.
Morning birds are chirping me on.
Raindrops a weeping from tree branches
at the sheer effort of it all.
A 6 foot 4 man is in my left ear
talking about speed and quadriceps.
A different 6 foot 4 man is in my right,
trying to read the lips of puddles.

© Carl Burkitt 2023