Moving Weight

As one should, I want to be better.
Mind and clock, ticking.
I laze through the night
Moon and eyes, staring.
The ceiling judges me.
I apologise, I want to do better.

Under the bed, there’s potential.
A forgotten, monstrous set of used dumbbells.
I slump down and start to scan,
Seeing dust and boxes and more furry dust.

Then, a glint of metal, a shining opportunity.
I flop to the floor and lengthen my arm,
Beating through the stale air, I graze steel.
Too far to grip.

My family is sleeping; do I wait till morning?
That would mean starting tomorrow… Procrastinating.

Attempting silence, I lug my bed to the side.
I’d determined: strong already.
My headphones yelling louder.
Hunched over, I carefully wrap my fingers around the cold, chrome handles.
My legs spring straight.

My arms bend, regimented, tensing, relaxing.
The moon sinks, the clock runs.
Comfortably sore, I spread over my bed
Surrendering to a deep, aching sleep.

My alarm croaks and I swing my arm to beat it away.
A kind, victorious pain.
I rub my shoulder as I urge myself up,
Ready to push through that lactic wall again.
My muscles tingle, and I stumble stiffly down to the kitchen.
Obsession redeveloping, I hunt for remedies
At the back of the cupboard:
Magnesium salts – congealed.
Whey protein – expired.
I “buy it again.”

They say it takes 18 to 254 days to build a new habit. How about to lose one?
Weeks pass, the chrome handles mould to grip.
The motions are repeated, rehearsed, perfected.
I’m seeing progress? tweaking my routine and diet.
I can do better. I research, remembering: “Gyms near me…”
A dreamy location, I think I know that logo.
Ignoring déjà vu, I subscribe.

Eighty percent of memberships are forgotten,
I need to be better.