by Brett Rutherford
Sweating at the gymnasium
and hoisting weights
all for a certain line
of muscles --- why?
I bide my time,
have better things
to fill my days.
I sweat at the piano,
lift words until they swell
with power.
Sweat on, poor fool.
Your head is empty.
When all is said and done,
and you and I recline
in coffins side-by-side,
no one will know which
of them is you, which me.
Every skeleton is blessed,
you see, with perfect abs.
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