I remember…

The heart attack of the alarm
Slamming me into consciousness.
The meticulous gym kit
Lying flaccid upon the chair
Waiting for some energy
To pump out its inertia.

The treadmill of the day has begun.

My automaton self constructs the garb of my gym persona:

Bra;
Shorts;
T-shirt;
Trainers;
Walkman;
House keys;
Water bottle;
Membership card.

I shove myself reluctantly
On to the cold hard pavement,
Like a filthy impostor
Contaminating the exquisite dawn.

The first street is Victorian
The second, Georgian.
Their pristine facades
Fronting the cherished values
Of conformity and respectability.
I furtively glance into their windows,
The Farrow & Ball walls,
The stoic upright pianos,
The clinical minimalism.
Of the glass and steel kitchens.

The milkman and I
Cross our robotic paths.
The whorish tortoiseshell is waiting
For the first of its many daily strokes.

Inside, I confront the black plastic machine
I clutch its sticky ergonomic handles
And I pump it as it pumps me.
And we do that for about 20 minutes.

My music is about the only thing
That saves the last vestige of my sanity
In this place of inhumanity
Where the machines stand firm
And the people oscillate.

The hollow mantra of the gym whines at me.
I cannot deny it is toning
But my soul it is destroying.

This morning
I felt the warm liquid pinkness of the sun
Through my transluscent eyelids
As it gently kissed my awakening.
My dreamlike dressing

Swinging upon the hill’s ever new vista
The wetness of the verdant grass
Bathes my winged feet.

Stunned by the shrouded chapel
Puncturing the valley’s nestling mist
The broad spanned bird adjoins my line
My vimerana steps into my stride
Together, we fly.