April poem no. 13

Today's April PAD prompt is to write about a hobby. I picked working out. However, instead of posting that poem I'll post another work out poem I wrote just shortly after Paul died. It's much more of a finished product and really says why working out is so important to me.

Making It Hard

The bright room is almost full.
All four walls of mirrors reflect women and men
in baggy shorts and sleek black tights.
The music is so loud
the woman in front of me stuffs ear plugs in her ears.
Lisa G says, “work from the core,
your workout relates to your real life.”
I want to get on with it.
I don’t come here at 6 a.m. to listen to a lecture.
The neon sign on the wall says, “sweat,”
and that’s what I want to do.
The woman behind me complains.
I don’t know her name, but she’s here every week.
Always in the same spot, always complaining, always in black.
Black tights, black sports bra, black thong leotard,
black headband on her head of black hair.
Even her lipstick looks black.

A drill sergeant in baseball cap and high-top aerobic shoes
Lisa begins her mantra.
“If it were easy, everyone would be fit,” she shouts
“Don’t come here and expect it to be easy.”
She doesn’t single me out.
I like it that way.
I like being anonymous here
I don’t know anyone and no one knows me.
No one knows about Paul, that he died
or any other thing about me either.
Being anonymous is a benefit.
It keeps me in shape, calms my mind,
gives me the space to be myself.
It’s a mini vacation from the horrors of my life.
So, I thank Lisa G
for getting me moving,
for making it hard,
For making it hurt,
for showing me how to
trade one pain for another.