The cross trainer
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.
