Workout - Shana Hill

 I guess I fell
on the treadmill.
It spat me out,
indigestible.
 
No one saw--
except the whole
gym of course.
 
So outside I run
to a wooden pole.
Stroll like a turkey
to the next.
 
I much prefer
dancing. Dancing
is jazz and it has
its own intervals.
 
This is my practice:
monotony, depth, and convention.
 
I should shout
while I run:
I need a goddam raise!
 
Do I even count?
Every two steps.
All the time.
 
One thousand steps
home from the square.
A thousand to walk
the dog at lunch.
 
Two hundred and ten
to the end of my street.
100 dollar bills
 
in my pocket
to buy new shoes--
 
like every two years.
always in intervals.