Anaerobic

I’m huffing up the incline behind the gym,

where the weeds have gone to seed and silver.

My lungs are two dry bags of gravel

rubbing together with every desperate heave.

Then comes the penny, cold and sharp,

sitting right at the back of my throat.

That copper tang of a heart working too hard,

breaking its own small pipes to keep me moving.

I swallow the rust and keep my head down.

I’m trying to run away from the funeral,

but the body keeps a record of the cost

in a currency I can’t afford to spend.