up, | down, | up, | down, | up, | down. |
Each year, the burden grew heavier:
| up, | down, | up and | down. |
At first, the mission was clear.
Older boys called him "Bones".
The Cullen Brothers delighted
in yanking down his shorts
before playground girls.
He would build his armor:
DO NOT MESS WITH ME!
Pickup basketball,
Little League baseball,
long afternoons on his BMX bike,
all surrendered
to the clanging of iron plates.
He memorized routines from
The Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding.
He strapped on a weight belt
because the big men wore them.
Missing a workout felt like desertion.
Mirrors lined every wall,
leaving nowhere to hide.
No matter how much armor he forged,
the boy was still underneath.
Now, his enlistment
has outlasted the enemy.
The Cullens have vanished.
The laughter faded.
Only the campaign remains.
He questions what will be gained
from another thousand bench presses,
longs to become
a conscientious objector:
|
up, |
down, |
then
out for good. |
Mornings, rather than suffer the gym,
he will languish on the front porch,
coffee in his fat Hemingway mug,
the cat claiming a chair beside him,
Mahler drifting thought the screen door.
Joggers file past,
their sweaty flanks flapping in protest.
He raises his mug in salute.
Tomorrow, he will report for duty.
