The Gym at Belvedere
a poem by Akachi Obijiaku
Luxury is all the rage
As the zone one high life seeps into the muscle groups of dear old pensioners
The towels are warm
The accent thick, native, and weirdly Queen Victorian
Gratification is not delayed
As they drink red wine and give the personal trainers high fives for easing the pace
You know you’re in a different land when the gym floor is faux fur
You know you’ve stepped out of line when the dogs can get manifuckingcures in the lounge
Battle lines are drawn amongst the upper-class neighbours
As the stay-at-home mothers, wives of oil barons, break sweat to see who can stretch the widest in Pilates
Bespoke Kegels they call the late-night class
Bespoke health they’ve convinced themselves they can acquire
With my mop firm and my head down, I return to my barren lightbulb-bust basement post
As they carry on with their premium yoga and tax-deductible charity spins
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