The Gym at Belvedere

a poem by Akachi Obijiaku

Luxury is all the rage

As the zone one high life seeps into the muscle groups of dear old pensioners


The towels are warm

The accent thick, native, and weirdly Queen Victorian


Gratification is not delayed

As they drink red wine and give the personal trainers high fives for easing the pace


You know you’re in a different land when the gym floor is faux fur

You know you’ve stepped out of line when the dogs can get manifuckingcures in the lounge


Battle lines are drawn amongst the upper-class neighbours

As the stay-at-home mothers, wives of oil barons, break sweat to see who can stretch the widest in Pilates


Bespoke Kegels they call the late-night class

Bespoke health they’ve convinced themselves they can acquire


With my mop firm and my head down, I return to my barren lightbulb-bust basement post

As they carry on with their premium yoga and tax-deductible charity spins

Don’t forget to visit the GUA Shop

GUA SHOP