Breathe deep, intones
their tanned, toned, spandexed
priestess.
Easy, they think, their joint inhale
the swell and crest of the time-honoured wave,
their exhale its retreat - just as she said.
Yes. Breathe into your limbs,
your eyeballs...
The arc-browed yoga moms and the bulbous
nine-to-fivers can only wonder
at the strange poetry of this command:
but try as they might, their breaths can't
get much past their collarbones.
Now reach up with your pelvis as we flow
into downward dog...
The mirrored walls catch the clumsy proliferation
of glutes in a combined thrust to heaven:
a sea of buttocks,
devout, vacuous.
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