from working out a bit. After
my **** I go down the red
carpeted stairs to the
basement burgundy broken

chair. I put my feet on the black
spot that I haven’t washed off. My MP3
is plugging my ears. The music
I hear distracts from my heavy

breathing and grunting as
I’m crunching for a half-n-hour
set. I wet my shirt with
the sweat. But dam! I look

like sculpture in the mirror. You
can call me “The Thinker” I go from
the sit-ups to composing a poem
every morning. I'm not paid for my

poetry. I'm only paid for *******. Men
cannot **** off to deep thought. Sass
in **** and ***. But they’ll sag. But
my poetry is ***** with my climbing

age. I'll engage and publish. Dry wit
is bustling. Dry ***** is disgusting!