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My felon circumvents
the Nautilus machines—

mindless of the stylish,
wasting muscle queens—

and leans against the rack.
We study him like scholars.

As he removes his sweats,
I offer wadded dollars,

a petty cash advance.
All day he must equate

prosperity with flesh.
There’s limited debate.

from ProprietaryFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2017
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Poems Randall Mann

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