I'm not sure that this poem stands by itself, but it certainly forms part of a growing sequence which centres on my swimming.

Justified ire

Rough beard and garish briefs

do not a swimmer make!

His hairy chest and

yawing crawl, with feet

and legs awry and

clumsy stroke which

splashed and dragged

redundant spray –

inelegant

and, unrefined!

And he left me behind.

With ease.  

          

          Even with board

between his legs,

to work the arms,

I could not match his speed.

And did he even know

it was a race?

I tell myself, 

          though slower,

I’m the one with, ‘style’.

I would though,

wouldn’t I?

Another poem, just like the rest, that needs to be set aside for consideration at a later date.