His summer sportive

In your every word
I could tell
that you wished
for him to have cycled the whole thing slowly;
To have farted along
the full distance:
sixty plus miles
red faced
and foolish.
I could tell
that you wished for his chip-time to reveal
an extended break
or a pathetic mile;
A finishing time
that wouldn’t have been worth sharing.
I could tell from the tone
of your every comment
and question
that you wanted me to bite and to join in
and say
what a silly old fucker,
or a fat bastard he is.
So deliberately I didn’t.
Who cares anyway?
You didn’t even turn up
Nor did I.
And you’re a much fatter bastard than him.

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