Poem #26

Two gentlemen- this, at least,

We can confirm, that they are gentlemen-

Confer beneath the projector.

Whether they are here to critique,

Or come off-peak, like Tuesday noon,

Or bought out all two-sixteen seats

To secure themselves exclusive views,

We cannot say.

I only fear they come here for me,

To watch peel from my sweaty legs

The Batman pyjamas, to hear me,

In thought, curse the thermostat,

Which I am too tired to rise

And turn clockwise.

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.