Mirror, Mirror (#1): Lunching Lady

A poetic character portrait from a distillation of informal observation.

It’s time for some original poetry, which I strive to generate at least once a month, and which will always be free to my wonderful subscribers and ever curious visitors.

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I recently joined a local gym and feel much better for the experience, both physically and mentally. To be recommended.

Or, of course, a poem. (Photo © J. Reid)

My eyes remain closed most of the time I’m exercising , as it’s easier to reformulate my novel’s prose without distractions. But I do open them occasionally, because it’s easier to write about what you see, or casually assume, or invent. I prefer not to face the mirror myself – you never know who might be watching…

Below is my first character portrait from a distillation of such informal observations.

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Lunching Lady

To sweat is not a social sin.
Put your makeup in the bin.
Your pores need to feel 
the air that you breathe.
Let your metabolism invoke
other tortured ways to poke
movement from false-toned limbs.

As hymns to the body beautiful
feed your muscle hustle,
why hide those salty drops of effort
hitting yoga tempered floors?
Unglue those eyelashes yoked
to the revolving door
of beauty filtered by fake.

You let admiring men
overtly acknowledge
your grace, your face,
the space you must create
between dumb bells
of pneumatic falseness
and over-inflated balls.

Pump to a spinner’s beat,
but trowelled cracks
of an ego’s insecurity 
can’t be fixed with
any expensive aesthetic,
the injected pleasure 
or over-ripened lips.

So reap your just rewards,
receiving praises from gazes,
which must never see 
the sweat you’ll forever
claim to effortlessly bleed,
the mirage you must paint
to be mistakenly believed.

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