A Slow Day


Some days are slow – especially at middle age
And some are as fast as a hare scampering
Towards a carrot and being caught in this dichotomy
Is not easy and those tortoise days – short of grains of energy
Lackluster as the withered wrinkled face
Of an old man with Alzheimer’s trying to remember
Whose name is being called…..
And those days – of frugal existence
You just dream of a phone charger to sink into a plug point
To fill you with some much needed joie-de-vivre
After all down sloping-age you discharge
Until you’re only a depleted battery
With scabs on your feet
And plaques in your head……



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