From far away, you think I play But it’s more than games. You have no frame of reference to understand. Let me give you an idea of the days here And how we form our experiences: There is a gym I go to. I know you and what you think: That it is wrong to work out for a song of a price But I do: eight dollars for 8 hours of visits. Not bad if you can do it. And I can. I’m a volunteer whose only cheer is her writing and running. So I run when I want to, rain, snow or shine; Or when I don’t want to, too, and face a new twist each time. The first few visits I got a push from an escort who looked like Geoffrey Rush, Always in a rush to start the treadmill before I ever arrived. A cultural stance perhaps: who could take a chance and let a woman do it alone? Finally, after shoving him away, I sailed away with Enya and sneakers. The third and fourth time, I had to fight through a line for the machine. I was asked to stop so a rich fop who could easily go around the block could walk for 15 minutes. But I continue to go because I know I need it. I continue to go because my legs can feel it when I run. I continue to go because this is one of few remnants of my old life. I put on my tight shiny pants and get ready to pant while I’m running. I’m always ready for the heavy weight of strangeness at the gym. I go and they don’t take my card or give me keys for a locker that is gone. Such things are small but always there. The last time I went I prepared myself for the bent reality: What would I encounter but more banter with the private trainer trying to kick me off? I go to the gym: six floors up, its own training, and trade in a card for a key. I enter the gym hall with a hand on the door knob for the locker room. I look at the tread mill in hopes it occupants are nil, but there is a user: He’s large and he’s black; He’s got a leash on his neck and he’s endlessly hairy. Before you collapse or doubt the connections in my synapses, Let me relay the fact that the user is a dog: A black sheepy poodle, his tongue a fat pink noodle Hanging from the side of his mouth. I continue on my way, close the door and begin to pray I’m not losing my mind. Then I started to laugh, hysterical chuckles, white knuckles as I grip the locker door. I convulse, check my pulse, and decide to face my challenge. I change and prepare to face the “the beast of hair.” I walk onto the gym floor ready for a fight. I watch as the sportsdog trots at a pace, a blank look on his face, his leash tied to the bar up above him. A woman standing nearby gives a careful eye to the activity of this animal. Suddenly, I had a rush of sadness. Not the least of this beast’s problem was that he was tied. If he tried to stop, he’d choke. What kind of sick joke is that? Not to mention the attention dogs like to give to Fire hydrants and other inhabitants of the doggy world while they walk. Sniffs and licks all around. Where are they found on a treadmill? I’m not the only one whose reality is bent: This dog must think our human senses are spent if this is how we spend our time. I approach the line-up of trainer, owner and spectators and find time is up. The dog steps off, seemingly glad to be free. I return to my bent reality: Enya and sneakers and panting and wondering if I run like a dog.

She easily slips down Into the underside of the coverlet, Mattress pad, Box spring Then frame. She finds the dark lint world, The underbelly of the big bed, Whose box spring eats her. She’s been digested, Now resting in the cool, quiet cavern Waiting patiently for The arrival of Unknown monsters. She’s inside the cavernous deep Waiting for something Bigger and badder to bed her. The under-bed a graveyard Of toenails and entrails From the great dust bunny riders who never made it home, The shoe that killed the horsefly, A sock she used to wipe the blood of the very first time, The strange crackles of sand from a beach long ago she no longer visits. It is not unheard of to live in the underbelly of the monster, Not too far fetched to stay forever in the cool darkness And pretend the padded playground is a patio where she can take her meals. This is not the only place she hides herself But the only place she’ll find herself Alone. Quiet. It’s better beneath. Better to hide. Not to be seen. The world is far enough away For now As she prepares for dawn.

Capital t this is not a complaint letter period space space Capital t this is just a note from the girls in the typing pool period space space Capital b by pool you might think of a crystal clear cubic space of chlorinated water surrounded by sparkling comma white cement period space space Capital i instead capital i i write from the waterless comma windowless comma workspace that is the lower hyphen level period space space Capital w we feel forgotten comma rotting in the basement period space space Capital p please don't forget us for birthday cakes comma welcome plates comma lunch dates period space space Capital p please don't forget us for happy hours comma bridal showers comma summer hours period space space Capital p please don't forget us as we stay late to generate what ends up beneath paperweights in the morning period space space Capital p please remember to let us know when the snow makes us close early period space space Capital p please remember when you stay til then at night comma so do we period space space Capital w we are part of you but separate period space space Capital w we are not desperate but close period space space Capital c close enough to send a note to say <br>open quotes capital d don't forget period close quotes