Made famous by Elmore Leonard,
it’s the gym
where professional boxers trained;
parolees and welter weights
hefted, grimaced and groaned.
They sneered at my puny poundage,
a flat-chested, pissed-off divorcee,
the only woman in sight, silently
slamming 200 pounds straight up,
with muscular legs.
I watched them watching me,
homies I recognized
from the county honor farm
and my bookmobile route,
muscle-bound Aryans
who talked tough from
behind a curling iron,
sold real estate or insurance by days.
They showed me photos
of women bodybuilders,
wondered if I was a dyke,
but never asked.
We all had reasons, routines
and a common goal:
invulnerability.

I dig it.
LikeLike