After working hours, is happy hour. Friends meet for cheap,
Carbohydrated drinks.
Instead she clocked out and came dressed in grey cotton, to sweat in
an apartment garage: Converted to a gym, padded with dumbbells.

I enjoy the view from my monthly lent balcony, and see
the trainer, my neighbor, command “Shoulders to knees!”
A barbarically behemoth body rolls, the piglet gives a grunt,
it runs up three stories (forty steps) and knocks at my door.

The trainer gets the straining belly rolling,
bulging, abs deep under her gargantuan bulb.
Ecstatically coaching a glacier into a sprint
or Jupiter to spin faster. Both could be easier.

Popping down three stories (forty steps), around
parked Mercedes’ and unlocked Mazdas, steam and smell from
my bag of popcorn pushes the sow back down
before she can sit-up—“Shoulders to knees!”—to number three.