Walk, Listen, Repeat by Kate Meyer
My feet had lost the vibe since they last
pounded London streets and pavements,
over two years before. Their beat dropped when
they went country, back in Devon.
They ambled like a tractor, blocking the
winding lanes. They trundled to the local
shop, over the bridge and dawdled to the
post office. They squelched in mud and
adapted their pace to a local drawl, to
gossip about the weather and village
scandals. They followed a coffin in the
hearse’s wake and heard echoes from
past times. They shuffled to their car on
winter mornings and idled on the brake,
still half asleep. They were suffocated in
plastic booties during ward lockdown, to
slide over shiny floors. They stomped
through twelve hour shifts like Godzilla
and heard their nerve-ends tingle when
they sat down. They heard the rasp of
their calloused skin and the wince of
bunions, as they bivouacked in their
trainer-trenches. They heard their sigh
of relief as they trudged up stairs home
to bed. They listened to the scuffle of
their rubber soles as they walked up
the road to the shops, scraping through
leaves. They felt the pulse of London
and heard the hip-hop of their heart-beat
as they swagged old ends; reclaiming
their two-step rhythm.
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