The dumbell

The dumbell sits on the rails waiting for my hand
The weight will burden my muscle
This is a contract I've signed 
I take it, hold it, lift it

The criss cross thread
eats into the palm of my hand
My muscle moans as I lift it
and as I slowly let it down

The monotony of a thousand repetitions
has eaten the fat and hardened the fibers
I become more solid and vain
Obsessed with my own reflection

Proud and sculpted
The iconic man who fused appearance to self esteem
Who thinks himself more masculine when it's false
I put down the dumbell and ponder my illusions

Then I remember with a heat and a satiation
My back hasn't hurt in years
Medical checkups report no abnormalities
I stand straight and walk so

I sleep soundly and wake hungry
The world looks less like a horrid mouth of sharp teeth
And more like a dinner plate with appetizing fixings
Tastes and aromas even seem clearer

And so I reach for the next weight up
I let the criss cross eat into my palm
I let the burden hit the muscle direct
I celebrate instead of complain

I am not more masculine by virtue of exercise lifting
But by never ever giving up