I twist and twist and twist for yards
then leap like those in leotards
down on the grass, limbs all splayed wide.
I’m far too old to learn to ride.
“Look out!” I cry. She smiles at me.
“No, really!” and I smack a tree.
My kneecap’s yelling homicide.
I’m far too old to learn to ride.
I sweat on, bleeding and unwashed.
Dogs chase me and are nearly squashed.
Their masters glare by the riverside.
I’m far too old to learn to ride.
“Who is that veering psychopath?
And why this upturned aftermath?”
they wonder, but I start to glide.
Am I too old to learn to ride?
My record’s seven, which I fix
to eight, then twelve, then twenty-six,
that’s one for every year I’ve sighed.
I’m not too old to learn to ride.
I’m now a proud old opsimath,
although I need an osteopath.
My flatmate claps. He’s dewy-eyed.
I’m not too old to learn to ride.
