I sit down
and my stomach flips
the way it did
on Spuggy's Bridge
years ago
on the run
to Jarrow
breathlessness
with every step
exhausted legs
by half ten
in the morning
the boredom
of more time
than its plausible
to cope with
watching quiz shows
on the sofa
even Richard
Osman starts
to get annoying
the way once-certain dates
in diaries
sprout question marks
then crosses
* * *
Today's poem is about, well, being ill. Just kind of popped into my head while I sit here getting my breath back for another epic attempt on the stairs before I get dressed to go to the doctors' and get my blood test results. I don't usually like the ee cummings 'I don't believe in punctuation' approach because it smacks, to me, of sixth form poets who've not got much beyond copying song lyrics onto their folders, but I've used it here because I think it gives the poem a sense of breathlessness. Ditto the short (well, for me anyway) lines.
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