Treadmill

i got a label:
on my shoes, sweat pants, tee and the headband
colour cordinated
thirty minutes a day
on a walking machine
that measures
and monitors
my breath, my pace, my heartbeat, my love-life;
walking brisk
watching tv
discussing stocks
and the latest episode
of some woman's mother-in-law
breathing climate control
behind sheets of glass
that keep the biosphere out,
then i move
towards shiny metal
torture machines
i twist, i turn, i flex, i fume;
i nod a hi
to the sixteen year old
ms.perfect designer body
she chitchats about
her botox, her tummy tuck, her enhancements, her parents' divorce;
larger than life
from behind her
arnold the groper
smiles back
a two dimensional pose;
a sweaty drop
teases my forehead
i pause, i think
does this exercise
pump up my heart?

hmmm

it has to.
i did pay
for it.