I look at my power rack
and see a rusted frame
a weak monument
to the greater ambitions
of a less-compressed spine.
I can still squat on my toes;
I can use the toilet like any man.
I can tie my shoes,
put on my socks,
lift the litter off the floor.
Lunges are a poor substitute;
leg extensions are for babies
and people scared of weights.
I console myself with the fact
that the Rock doesn't do squats.
My legs won't atrophy without them,
for it is not their destiny to be
balsa wood sticks.
As Jeff Goldblum said,
"Life will find a way."
And so I will persevere,
while my power rack gathers dust.
Good bye, old friend.
May I use you again some day.
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