Variable Rate

I bent downward, the plug rigid in my fingers
Like a crucifix in a dead priests hand
And pushed it toward the socket
It chipped at the sides so I leant in further
Pushing my way past storage boxes, tennis racquets
And an old hoe, blunt but comforting – old histories

“Damn this tiny shed” I grimaced as baubles
Emerged from my wretched forehead and crawled
Across my eyebrows, ran along my nose
And dripped, like salty Lemmings, to splatter
As dead rain, onto the wooden floor

Still the three pronged devil refused to yield to
The holes provided so I tensed my arthritic knees
Straining for more reach and I felt it begin –
That old familiar thump, deep in my chest –
Just a pulse at first

“Bastard” I cried withdrawing the malevolent plug
And aiming again without success. Now the flex
Has tethered on something behind me
Around the stone bird bath or snagged on the

Corner of the barbecue. I flip it, lasso-like,
A cowboy to the last and the pulse turns into a
Throb, resonating and accelerating, rattling the
Rib cage.

I drop the plug and it lands out of sight beneath
A decaying golf bag. My brain screams and the
Metronomic heart drops its weight

A little more and quickens again.
My hand darts in and out of the dark space

Unfocused in myopic eyes and the beats become
Blurred, arrhythmical.

An ache inflicts a hasty injection along
My other

Arm as the instrument slips into place

“Why couldn't it do that in the first place!”

I breathe in sonorously and repress the awkward shivers that slide unfettered through
My body and gradually the aorta runs down, becalming itself as I saunter toward the
Lawn mower. I depress the safety switch and haphazardly swing the machine head
Across the cultured lawn obliterating the long sheaths that sought to infect its placidity.
“Another Bank Holiday” I sigh...
“Another...
Bank...
Holiday”