Muscle Boy and Treadmilla

They are the regular regulars,
More so than I.
First, the kid: He's methodical.
With silent assurance and upward heaves
He moves his masses gracefully,
Countering Earth's centripetal drag
Before giving way to the sovereign tug.
Pointless work, no change accomplished--
No pharaoh's monument thrust skywards--
Except for Work (that's force times distance)
And sinewy self-embellishment.
Then there's the lady,
Tracksuited Treadmilla,
With graying, black, scrub-brushy hair
And solid, steady, left-right gait;
She pounds the virtual pavement
Like a hoplite on the march.
I imagined that daily she must cover
A flattened swath of the PNT
In endless end-to-endiness,
But she avers she troops a mere
One hour per weekday morning.
We three are disparate, yet united
In private pursuits of tonicity,
As futile as they may be.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Nice work on this poem Wilyem. My experience at a gym has not been as good as yours unfortunately. To many muscle bound "Bros" and "dudes" with their frosted tip hair and constant woofing grunts into a mirror as they entertain themselves bouncing their pecs into dance. Then giggling like 12 yr olds afterwards. After a while it gets to be too much with the smell of testosterone and arm pit in the air. I prefer working out at home instead. Thank you for sharing your poem with us.