Inside the Gym

I will not pretend to know what goes on
inside the gym.
I don't go there. I do not lift weights
or walk in a straight circle for hours .
I suppose the spandex taut over
supple breasts and the flexing butts
all desparate for liberation and
release from the sexless coil of that
realm would be enticing if reciprocation
were an option. But I am he of the
blubber.
I am he of lipids and cellulose.
I am the walking, talking, endless feeling
monument to lard
and I do not know what goes on inside
the gym.

I only know that they will never hear the
slapping flapping sounds of the fat between
the folds in my brain trying to lose
as much of myself as possible in the
twelve weeks before speedo season, because
even I am not quite that stupid.