The Dogma of Artificial Running

The treadmill has a
holy rhythm.
It's speed button
carries the plight
of generating
an electronic pulse.
The computed corpse
knows the struggle of stride,
the ambition of a size four,
the gluttony of late night shwarma.
It measures your saturated fat
in bowls not tablespoons.
The sin of Body Mass Index
blinks in flashing lights,
mocking your five mile entry.

The only thing in common
with your psychiatrist
is loneliness.
It doesn't understand
the death of an iPod,
the flesh of thighs
peanut-buttered together,
or pink blood spooning
light blue cotton.

Pity is an emotion
foreign to a CO-2 generator.
It only knows
failure and success.
An oxygen exchange,
hard enough for a back alley,
guilty enough for a blurry mirror
with an unlimited horizon.
Just step,
melt,
breathe,
beg.