MAMIL on the loose

The world says
I should be producing
Something
For Someone:
Doesn’t matter what or who
Or why;
It’s the taking part
That counts.

And so
Each weekday-morning pedal-stroke
Is a small rebellion;
A quiet refusal
To be contained.
This sun-stretched hour has not been bought
So I need not account
For how I spend it;
I shout no slogan, raise no banner
But register my protest
With long, lonely marches
In the heat-mirage of burning tyres.

In time
The suits will send
The snatch-squad out
To haul me back and shackle me
To that other, dark machine.

For now,
I’m out of sight and reach,
Fallen off the roaring edge
Of a world they never see.

And if they want to take me
They’ll have to catch me first.

 

Just back from a lunchtime ride: 80 minutes on the road bike, in sunshine hot enough to melt the tarmac. Got to work this afternoon, but now I can face it with equanimity, having done the thing I want to do, ahead of the thing I have to do. Mission accomplished.

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