I started going-to-the-gym
at 75. The first I liked until
they swapped their trainer for a video.
Not safe. The second was terrific
until my class was canned.
That chafed. The third is where my friends
had always gone and now I also go.
When you find a senior-friendly gym
knots untangle, locks unclick, chains dissolve.
You’re not a stand-out any more
not a mascot, not a pet
you’re not ghettoed, you’re not banned
you’re not a source of pride or fear
you can pause without causing alarm
you can shine without an avalanche of praise
you are finally just a human, one of the crowd.
Yes, my form is excellent
and my body so much stronger
and more splendid than it was
a mere three years ago
(on the record a 3-minute plank
and 100 press-ups done in batches
and a pat on the back)
and not to flip my head around
let alone do burpees
so I’m up to speed
though out of time in every sense.
I go to class on Sunday Tuesday Thursday
and if my muscles hurt on Monday Wednesday Friday
that’s good. That’s very good.
Good for me. Good on me. Good me.
Photo from Architecture.org.nz, poem by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0