Seven minutes into my exercise regime
I am sure I have cancer of the thighs.
After twelve minutes of working out
the evidence is conclusive even though
I’ve never heard of the disease.
Eighteen minutes provides definite assurance,
despite not knowing anyone with the malady.
The proof is as plain as the nose on my sweat-beaded face.
Twenty-three minutes
on the infernal contraption
provides a differential diagnosis:
Exertion Amnesia.
Each and every time
until that lovely endorphin rush
I forget that I will not collapse,
forget that I will survive
forget that not only
did I do this
just two days ago,
but that I liked it.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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