To keep his blessed armor hard he ate
lean meat, cruciferous greens, few
grains. He liked his instants
parceled out in reps and sets, and he was glad,
to dangle like an ape from an iron bar, admiring
his bicep bulge (amen): He worked hard
the slant board, the oblique
twist, and his own form
waxed and polished, his house a bleached vault
where he lit votive candles to the clear
persistence of his little self though no one else
showed up. He liked
the slammed door, the map’s red line, to stomp
a clutch, to clutch the black wheel, to wheel
away in steaming rage.
more from Mary Karr’s poem at Paris Review here.