In the gym at the end of the world
there are mirrors and suspended TVs
that play out to almost nobody.
News cycles and fifteen-year-old music videos.
The weights room;
a flickering fluorescent light,
garish pinks and grubby purples.
Fingerprints on the glass.
A missing ceiling tile.
Black tape over splits in the pleather padding on every other workout bench,
orderly,
facing the mirror,
reclining.
The discoloured grips on the dumbbells.
The odd mismatched weight from
Some other set.
The wrong font, the wrong shape.
The fraying of a rope,
black like tar
and the rubber walkway
and the static punchbag.
The thrum of a lone runner,
slight incline
on the running machine,
going absolutely nowhere.
The pacing on the yoga mats of a man
between lifts.
Teatime television with the subtitles on,
muted to accommodate songs from a 2011 package holiday.
The wide legged stance,
seated as if for medical examination,
of a man
on the squat machine,
feet up against the plate.
Between reps,
between relationships,
thumbing messages into a phone between his thighs.
The corrugated metal of the warehouse ceiling.
Large print adverts for
Body Pump
by the bins and the blue paper towels
and the water fountain that hasn’t worked
since Christmas.
The silence of people who exercise in each other’s presence, weekly,
who will not say a word.
The thin buzz of someone else’s playlist bleeding from bluetooth headphones.
The determination of a brand new outfit
and white trainers that don’t get worn outside.
The rueful acceptance of the unused membership
on a rolling monthly fee.
The post gym pilgrimage;
night-drive across the industrial estate
to the Supermarket car park.
Acres of bays.
Empty bays,
and occasional cars.
Odd illuminated cabins.
Single men eating cut price meal-deals
straight
from the packaging,
comforted by sports radio
and the hum of the fan heater.
The cold blue light glow of the signage in the dark
provides a focal point,
something to watch as figures drift in and out
between the scanners.
The rattle of a line of trolleys snaking across the concrete,
a babbling brook of sorts,
led by high-vis.
Invisible men in high-vis.
A misshapen basket strewn in a bush.
