Kloncke

with abs like Ciara’s
you know damn well you’re wanted.

people will admire you, too,
when you lambaste the opposition,
harangue and fulminate with the eloquence of Russell Brand,
smash on your unlucky rivals
(even if the rival is you: your own gross shortcomings).
rubbernecking onlookers, vicarious,
will savor your power with bubbling glee, delighting
in your slicing triumph.

but who will praise and celebrate when you don’t overstretch in yoga?
when you heed that spooky squeal inside your knee
slowly noticing in triangle pose
that clenching your thigh muscles helps on the right side
but only seems to pull things worse on the left.
where are your accolades for that?

who will smack you a jubilant high-five
when you get off the phone with your cranky, lonesome uncle
having nudged forward a kindly conversation
like a blind, brand-new puppy splayed on its belly,
wriggling inefficiently toward warmth?
 
fortunately or unfortunately, my friend
it might be all up to you.