To help celebrate National Poetry Month, Painter/Poet and Hotel Chelsea resident George Chemeche sent us a poem.
THE GEM OF THE GYMS
Obituary to the Old Chelsea Y
Welcome, members, the banners cry.
Welcome to the old Chelsea Y.
Show your cards. Towels on the house.
They come one by one with their sneakers on.
They come, but they won't smile, won't say hi.
They're fit and ready,
Kim, Freddy and Jerry.
Soaked to the skin with desire to win,
they stretch their wills riding treadmills,
bikes, and strength machines.
Some strive for an easy ride,
some hit the pedals hard.
Some prize the warning device,
some discard the skeptical heart.
When the latter drums fast,
fingers seek the pulse.
Spry legs, up-to-the-minute fresh,
speed ahead along the foot-race track.
An old couple, Twin Rabbits nicknamed,
struggle at snail's pace to gain the journey's end.
Some die-hards dance to aerobic tunes.
Fat-burning seniors wait their turn.
Some, full of vinegar and piss,
stubbornly cruise the swimming pool.
Strapped with masking goggles and tight caps,
they shoot their laps half-hour exact.
(The rules of the house.)
Water lovers, skinny in name only,
make waves to bury their shame.
Some lift weights, score few sweet points.
Some sweat it wrong, offend muscles and groins.
Inept or not, they feel like daredevils as well.
Good and tired, they take their ease
into the locker rooms, relax the weary feet
and heave a sigh of relief.
For some who like it hot,
sauna and steams are at hand's reach.
"They know the bitter truth,"
remarks the hilarious Dr. Ruth.
"It takes more than lifting weights,"
to lift the spirit, lighten the mood,
kiss the calories goodbye. That's why,"
she sighs, "they won't smile, won't say hi."
Anticipating the best from the scale,
"Wait," they say, "Watch your beef."
Gee! How they hate what they see.
"It takes a fool," they whoop,
"to lose one damn ounce."
They vow to cut on the nuts,
screw the ribs and the stew,
skip the side dish,
fight to the last ditch.
Oh, my! No wonder they won't smile, won't say hi.
Copyright 2006 George Chemeche
The running track is now a yuppie condo.
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