I go far by going nowhere.
The cycle is detoured from its original purpose.
I put in so much heart for a healthy heart.
Like any bike tour it's the route not the destination,
and the scenic route lies with mountain roads not expressways.
Here in my living room,
I gobble up no mileage while losing waistline inches.
Demon dogs lock fangs on my legs.
Pedals become heavier than the camel's last straw.
Heaving lungs rebel as mind wanders from stationary body.
Images race by me like trees past a speeding car.
I'm the lifeguard on the beach,
or the high school quarterback with cheerleaders attached.
I'm six feet with a thirty-four waist.
I'm what I never was.
Close to exhaustion I turn transgender,
a ballerina with my cycling feet spinning in pointed shoes.
I focus on the handlebar bolt holding the contraption together.
Breathless I endure a kind of death and resurrection.                  
An indolent being gasps, labors,
births a new, fitter, more disciplined soul
baptized in his own sweat,
all in my living room.
This new creature crumples up on the carpet
beholding the newborn world.
But everything is as it was,
chairs, tables are all in place.
The couch, the couch, the couch, the TV -
and the six-foot refrigerator humming its mystery.

Richard Fein

If you've any comments on his poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to hear from you.