Gym Membership

I pound and pound this what-do-you-call-it,
Elliptical, EFX546,
pumping the body all that chemical shit,
shooting my morning its new daily fix,

instead of pondering over an old sonnet,
a room of straw for spinning into gold,
a debt requiring its pound of meat,
a mini made from an injection mould.

It’s true I haven’t moved although I’ve run
3 miles, and, like in writing, I’m as far
from what the mind wants and the mirror sees,
and though it’s true I pound like everyone
on manufactured wheels, my chariot-car
signals I’ve lost four hundred calories.

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