Along the southern perimeter, the dawn street sounds alarm
as a robin whistles its tits off in the evergreen magnolia. Northward,
foreign maples crouch in the house’s shadow, true colours
camouflaged by its brick and mortar eclipse. A platoon
of prescription pills and potions stand bedside sentry, awaiting
the reveille of our organ recital: a cataloguing fugue of aches,
of pains, of inconveniences. Our ears strain to pick out
the kickover of distant engines, of motorbikes clearing their
night-clogged throats, and the clicking of kettle switches
as staccato as the cocking of pistols. Supine together
in the curtained haze, we commence the daily ritual
of equipment presentation: senses activated in the protocol’d order,
our arsenal of remaining parts checked and correct,. Someone,
I know, must lead. Shake a leg, number two, I mutter, stubble-throated.
We go again.
Dave Wakely’s writing has been shortlisted for the Manchester Fiction, the Cambridge and Bath Short Story awards, and poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Online Programme Manager for Milton Keynes Literary Festival, he lives in Buckinghamshire with his husband.