Life on the Treadmill

One hundred and seventy two
beats per minute is the pace
at which thoughts expand
and shoes wear thin. Throbbing Nirvana,
on step with the chorus of a flimsy rap song.

I've never been one for Ferris wheels.
Merry-go-rounds offer a better hand.
Going around in circles is justifiable
when you appear to be grounded.

Life is safer in an air-conditioned gym
full of like-minded people.
The stale, the sturdy.
Running as fast as the machine allows
without moving forward an inch.

Tackling no hills other than those
which you've programmed
into this black plastic death trap.

-- Corey Ginsberg