Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Aerobics

“It’s not my thing, strenuous aerobics, like glassy-eyed bimbos,” I tell him, “I only let my heart dance,” feeling giddy with the taste of soup at lunch in front of TV. “All those motions are for the birds and fish, in water or wind.” Fine-tuned and high-toned is my discrimination against exercise, for I, clumsy and maladroit, share a vulgar languor with Doric columns and Easter Island heads.
Meanwhile, someone on CNBC jokes about a Bugatti. What is a Bugatti? I imagine, a fancy car, its rubber squealing on pavement.
He leans over to caress my cheek. “No aerobics, then, Honey. You don’t have to do everything they suggest.” His hands the instruments of demigods, and how I don’t want to drive past this vast moment…

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Prompt: one of these things is not like the other