I heard a story once, about a boy
who hoisted in the air a newborn bull,
determined to each morning re-employ
his muscles as the bullock grew. At full
size he would surely raise the beast, he thought.
That attitude seemed accurate to me.
But long before he pressed the weight he sought,
ambition was upset by atrophy.
I recollect that fable now, as I
observe my gym-rat friends fall out of shape.
We’re aging – we must use or lose, that’s known –
but quarantine extends and muscles die.
The only reason I don’t share their fate?
I’ve always done my exercise at home.