A 21st Century Suburban Fable

The treadmill, one discovers, really doesn't
Cycle ceaselessly.  Its owners sometimes
Turn it off, and, when they do, one pitches
Forward, falling, as my neighbor has.  Poor
Man, he lost the job he'd always wanted,
For which he had trained, and which,
The treadmill indicated, would be his until
He won a plaque and chose to step aside,
Applauded by his fellow plodders.  Now,
He stares in disbelief.  His knees are scraped.
His income's gone.  He feels as if he still
Is falling, and he is, and will until
He finds another treadmill, and its
Owners let him on.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 34 times
Written on 2022-07-27 at 17:21

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You're so fucking good at writing poems, man. I really envy you.

Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
I hope he gets a leg up onto something less consuming than a plain ordinary, but horrible, treadmill.