Like a tennis ace, all
Crisp white shorts, and shirts
Fresh every day,
He sits over the breakfast
Table, too big
For any chair, an elbow 
Planted, a one-hand scoop
Of eggs and bacon,
Solid muscle in the arm
And thigh, his neck
A bronze pillar
Of glowing flesh.
And then you see

Slight tremor, and glimpse
The massive continuing act
Of self-control that holds
This huge frame 
Together, prevents
Spillage, leakage, any sign
That one day soon
Tendon may spasm,
The merest lifting of a fork
An impossible task,
And are aghast
Before this terrible
Doomed dignity.

 

  • by David Punter

WordPress: davidpunter.wordpress.com

Anthology: Bristol: 21 Poems (published 2017)

 

UK (but written in the Maldives)