Ode to Those Who Work Out, Getting Buff

The organized Natural State.

The cry of Monday's industriousness,
from the weight benches flanked
with mirrors.

Sweat, the cure,
the craving of those
with bike speeds
of 10. All of the toxins
out through the pedaling feet.

To the man, 
grunting with
such an effort at those 70 pounds,
shoving the bar above his head.
There is the acrid 
smell of success.

Spritz bottles
of disinfectant,
rolling across the rubberized floor.

The bay of treadmills
beneath televisions
telling us the view of the world
as we walk in place,
getting 2.4 miles closer
to where we are now.

Like the prideful lions of lore
the men with bulging arms
stare longingly as Narcissus,
into the mirrors as they curl
and curl the silver weights.
The ungodly sounds of virility
from the lips as yes,
they become buffer.
More attractive
in the eyes
of all bystanders
(themselves).

To the women gossping with magazines
along the ellipiticals,
more credit for multitasking
in this world of never stopping.
Legs, hands, mouths flailing
with a vigor seen nowhere else.

And to the rowing machines in the
corner,
outdated with the spinning bikes.
We salute your sweaty existence.

For the souls of a Monday night
in the presence of each other's sweat
and grit and obsessive anti-germ spritzing,
I commend thee.

For industriousness does fade
with the length of the work week.