53.2. Numbers blink, red dots on scales
show my thighs have grown
by two-hundred grams. I open the window.
Adverts for drama productions hang across skies,
a heavy woman squeezes against glass
to make room for me.
For lunch, I swallow crushed ice,
wood shavings, a full glass of tap water;
jump on the treadmill: thirty-eight minutes,
three-point-two miles, three hundred calories.
Lost two-hundred grams.
A neighbour rings, invites me to dinner
saying the man living at number four died
hit by a bus on the way to the gym.
He was 73 kilos. I am 53.
I stop eating protein, google public transport
routes, pick-up times for stones-pounds.
Every day at 9:45, a stout driver reminds passengers:
‘No hot food at the back. Only light snacks.’
Indoors. Drawing jogging maps
on steaming shower curtains.
Shampoo waves on my striped ribcage.
Sea splashes away in the bathroom.
Sand grains hide in my shoe.
©Maria Stadnicka, 2018