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Mike Hoy

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Pumping Zen

You don't often bump into Buddha
jogging down the gym.
Siddharta's shape in statues,
delicatessen belly and lordly arse
are suggestive of a sleepy sumo,
so when he interrupts the workout
to challenge my ambitions
and lead me to the Eightfold Path
I am, at first, flattered.

I've seen him regularly, training
in a holy glow, without recognition -
possible paunch and laughing face
looking into my head.
Today he teaches me other exercises
during my futile wait at the multi-gym.
Highs are to be avoided and lows,
at which I'm expert, are excellent,
releasing kilos of harmful karma.

Noting, under my muscles
a lack of confidence known only
to part of me, he gives a mantra
but says I am unready to meditate.
By now I'm bored, he stands too close,
and though I know all prophets are a loss
I feel as if caught in my shorts
by some witless Jove with no door
to hide behind.

Only when he goes to chat to Rod,
the male model, golden and gleaming
like a Thai statue, do I remember
what to do if you meet Buddha on the road,
even one going nowhere.

 

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