has power shoulders, swingingly is
a Ms at her workout. Gung-ho she knows
her one rope's slope, this cable-twist
of biceps. Her leaps are stressed
in brisk, non-risk, iambic arcs,
her jaunt all flaunt, all blissful reflex.
About her body's interface
with surfaces, she's serious,
Lawrentian, vitalist, so post-modernist,
in her russet tracksuit's satin sheen,
our high-achiever belle cousine,
and has been since the Eocene,
working the air's universal joints
arm over arm in taut s-bends,
airy double clefs and ampersands.
With her talcum face and small white hands
one looks for the handbag flying behind
this aerobic Ms, now in her snappy brown blouse
as she vaults the shoppers to catch her bus,
with scarcely a glance for shuffling us,
and arrives, as though for her seminar,
to sit composed on the edge of a chair,
hands on knees and elbows in,
body-work over, biros poised to begin.
This life of the mind, eh girls. Ho hum,
shall I kick off? Cogito ergo sum.