She’s running the treadmill—goin’ on an hour and a half.

‘Least that’s since you’ve made your daily appearance.

The machine will stop you at ten miles,
but nuthin’s to stop you from resetting the machine;
goin’ another ten.
And another. And another.

Nuthin’s to stop you…
save for the club’s close-time.
Or your legs giving out.

She’s wearing the purple T-shirt because,
printed on the back, in bold white
over the big 3,
is the name: MIKE.

Or, that’s your guess.

It occurs to you how many times here,
at this arm’s pit excuse for a gym,
just how many times you’ve mistaken tears
for sweat…

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