|‘Sand Sculpture’ courtesy of Pixabay.com
Chance cheating, I tip my toes on the pool floor.
Forward frogging, I propel myself onwards.
Foam floating into third place, I collect my prize.
Proud punching the air, I laugh.
Now, forty-one years since.
No prize am I for a novel-man of fifty.
Bottom bulging, thoughts thinning and bones breaking.
Risk racing, I write and write and write, heading forth to completion.
Post pipping, a poseur’s popularity.
Before reaching fifty.
Fast forwarding to fifty, I see myself.
Skin sagging, wrinkles rolling, trip trotting into his life.
Shift shoving a body bashing author off the stage.
Love lifting me up.
Proud punching the air, at fifty, I laugh.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 1st August, 2019
Riled by the ill-spoken, gender-dissing comments of a French novelist