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| ‘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.
Nothing nudging.
Until now.
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.
Rewards rolling.
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.
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 