TUESDAY 9
On the verge, under
tree shade, a couple of chairs
sitting arm in arm.
WEDNESDAY 10
Blood leaps up the tube
for once, no need of coaxing,
no bruising either.
THURSDAY 11
40 milligrammes
takes a while to swallow as
eight tiny white pills.
FRIDAY 12
Another birthday,
the end of long days starting,
dark all the way home.
SATURDAY 13
The first pony shoe,
my grandfather’s apprentice
piece, chromed and shiny.
SUNDAY 14
Someone props their bike
beside the wayside toilets,
stares into the car.
MONDAY 15
Children in hi-vis
jackets practise their skills in
the shady side road.
Seventeen 