Monday, 21 October 2013

A Piece of Equipment Which Allows Static Cycling Inside, Used by PJ in the Ballroom While watching a Scenic Drive Through a Country Village on his IPad

The smell of burning rubber fills the air
As PJ in his Lycra cycling gear,
Whizzes on his rollers; doesn't care
For silly old convention; his only fear,
That he might wobble over, knock the sideboard,
The trumpet of the gramophone might fall,
And knock the inlaid tray into the hoard
Of  dusty, ancient phials along the small
Shelves of the regency apothecary chest.
And yet he's far away along a lane,
In bright and quiet sunlight speeding past,
Old houses, churches he'll not see again,
Oblivious as to how juxtaposition
Is catalyst to my imagination.

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