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I hate it,

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it,

I hate its fucking squeak, its clunks, its lurches.

I hate it when it’s cold. I hate it when it’s hot.

I don’t much like it when it’s temperate.

I step on. Grudgingly. Set the timer and off we jolly well go.

Christ.

The squeak kicks in immediately, despite repeated oilings.

Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak.

I block it out, knuckle down, break a sweat, plan my day.

And daydream. Weaving little stories in my head.

I build imaginary new worlds, then dissolve them with reality.

I solve problems, then think of new things to worry about.

I cross borders, build bridges, make art and compose sonnets.

I rationalise, philosophise and my mind wanders.

Then I wake.

And I’m still on the bastard.

I wipe away sweat and puff and wheeze to my goal.

I step down, garlanded in short-lived triumph.

Knowing full well,

I’ll be on it again.

Tomorrow.

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