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It’s hard not to notice what’s deficient in a mirror.
‘No Judgement’ company motto splashed on every wall,
writ large so no one feels too special or especially small.
Boast: my inner critic is stronger than your inner critic.
The arm curl tests what you carry and what you crave.
No one has set off the lunk alarm, a police siren glued
to a wall waiting for growing biceps to become postures.
There is an older couple who don’t clean up their sweat.
It pools on the seat vinyl: strangers’ fluid mocking mine.
Aging weighs on the mind. A child has no kneecaps
when they’re born, a dynamic lifter is not formed at birth.
At the cleaning station people collect paper towels, spray
disinfectant on worn vinyl to erase the memory of effort.
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The one who grunts loudly anticipates daily accolades.
The one who deadlifts goes to the toilet too often.
The one who judges most hydrates the least.
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Your father’s name is Jim.
You decide to build a home set-up within his skin,
in a new attempt to be closer and less like him.
He doesn’t notice you there, working things out
stretching well-marked boundaries of estrangement.
Watch him self-loathe as you lift lats and legs higher,
he gets smaller when rowing towards a finishing line.
It works fine for a while, but this is not a fitting place
to pursue emotional growth or personal records.
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It’s hard to determine appropriate podcasts.
You switch between distilled political hot takes
and sex therapists mapping the distance
between the perineum and post-coital truth.
The choice between stationary and recumbent
bikes may determine differences in audio desires.
The main floor music is a mix of EDM, trap,
and arena rock, a blended set to dance across
a glute bridge, humming something familiar
or benign as you reacquaint with hamstrings.
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This exercise chain relies heavily on novices,
those who can’t talk or sing during light sets.
It depends on many members not showing up,
dumbbell ghosts and invisible muscle masses,
an empty locker worth more than a barreled chest.
You like to go when the numbers are lowest.
When dead skin is included in a head count.
During peak times you dream about disappearing,
the legacy of effort and cultural mandate of breath.
Gains are infinitesimal, every step taken on the step
machine maintains a parallel relationship with death.
Squeezing life into this flex, it’s probably for the best.
The Regional Arts Fund is an Australian Government initiative that supports sustainable cultural development in regional, remote, and very remote Australia. Regional commission were made possible by the Australian Government’s Regional Arts Fund, provided through Regional Arts Australia and Regional Arts NSW.