Poem #24

I resent the term push-up; it’s

Press-up.

I press myself to carpet with

Inhale.

I hold the contraction, until

Up. Three.

I like to pretend, on my

Way up,

That my breath assists with

The lift,

As if I were a hovercraft,

Exhaust-

Ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s

Vomit.

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