THE SHIP OF SHAPE.

So after the day has been filled with its frills,
And the more substantial demands of fatherhood,
And its principle package has been stashed in his cot,
I dial my love and we discuss as much as we can
In the time that we have,
And then I lay for a while and contemplate
The last twenty four hours municipal events,
And dread my exercise:
That damned facsimile boat that stands at the foot of my bed
And calls upon me every evening to relieve age’s grievances,
And causes me to question my resolve
Every time I answer it,
Every time we dance with fitness
And its handsome stamp of vigour and vitality
In order keep up with my growing boy:
You see I’m forty five,
And he nearly three,
And it doesn’t require a bright mind
To realise I’ll have to be on my toes sooner rather than later,
And if they’re composed of crumpled wood
Then nobody will do any good by it.
So I challenge myself every night;
I dare my natural indolence
To stare into the future’s tense and unpleasant land
And do nothing,
And then I rise and pull at the oars,
Of course,
And eventually, after the pain subsides,
I ride the invisible river of my room
Until I’m back at berth again,
And alight with the knowledge that,
Although nowhere near the water,
I’m wetter than I ever thought sweat could get me,
And better in body and mind than I was before,
And more able to take this confidence forward;
And if, step by step, I can take care of today’s claims
Then tomorrow’s will take care of themselves.