Don’t look at his arms now.
Stiff and swollen, small muscles
curled in like a mountain:
needing someone to open the gym
an hour to workout.
That arm held the weight,
made the ladies say
ripped and attractive.

Don’t think of his heart
behind thick abs flirting
with girls, his voice
drowning in grunts and moans,
his daily routine.

Think of the bodybuilder who slid
3 steriods down scaffolding esophaguses,
every meal,
who stood up to Death the Dealer
for more hits to take on.

Keep him the image of the unhealthy,
straight-backed on the gym floor
in sickness, sighing
from his choice.
Keep his image holding
needles, syringes, and pills,
bringing your heartbeat down
not on the muscle,
your mind’s logic sweeping off fantasies.