As the calendar shoved me into my 60th year,
assuming like mum and dad, a short shelf life,
I waited for ill heath to finally come and collect.
Researching on Dr Google, I found one monstrous disease
whose symptoms seemed to match like the winning
numbers in a lottery with a dreadful prize.
Overdosing on GP visits, shame corkscrewed
my stomach at the sighed Her again…
humoured with tests and then a talking to-
Covid cancelled signs were pasted over Casablanca, Ascot,
friends and family dinner: but on the day, biker-chick
in leathers and saucy Grayson Perry scarf flown like a pennant,
we brushed verges in a wall of death dip, wove past champing
Porches, BMWs, Mercs, in kiss my exhaust audacity
to the front of a traffic queue log jamming into Margate.
A virgin biker since March lockdown, I added this
to my late harvest of: you, travel, middle aged mischief,
and decided that everything is a bonus now -
If you have any thoughts on this poem,
Fiona Sinclair would
be pleased to hear them.