Between seasons



Now we’re getting in
To the days when getting out
Gets harder:

When the tan-lines blur

Old hacks get the daily nod

And kit we last wore
Before the Tour
Of Italy

Goes on

(And on

And on.)

As we descend
        into the dark and frigid
            lower circles
                of l’enfer

The shorts-and-short-sleeves days
That were all-but guaranteed
Can now be counted on
The fingers of one gloved hand:

Feet marinated in rain and road-filth

Fingers cramped to cracked red claws

And a nose like a leaky tap

Are now the norm

And warm

Is just a word

We once heard

But never seem to feel.

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