Sunday, October 3, 2010


He's up at 5 a.m.
To the gym, he goes.
It's his agenda.
He works his chest and arms today.
He is after the "pump".
He does countless repetitions.
Iron bars, dumbells, plates.
He sees the sweat saturating his raggedy sweatshirt.
Cut off sleeves reveal huge, venous arms.
He earned his "guns".
No fancy workout costumes for him.
This ain't Halloween.
This is serious business.
He works at it 3 hours a day, six days a week.
Even God rested on Sunday.
He grunts, and talks to no-one.
This ain't no social club.
He doesn't notice the women.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone.
He just does this thing for himself.
The ritual is his narcotic.
He mainlines it every day.
It's his way.
No one can buy an entry ticket.
A man has to earn this life.
He's earned it.
He's a mean dog.

No comments:

Post a Comment