Convenience

Every day I pass
two women who
stand, hands folded,
beside a rack of
pamphlets that read,
“Will Suffering End?”
They face the all-night
gym, ellipticals
and treadmills
lined up catapults
in the window.
They say its madness
repeating the same
action expecting
different results,
yet the bodybuilders
grow stronger and
stronger and the women
marshal an army
of souls with which
to storm the afterlife.
So if, at 2 a.m.
every Saturday,
I find myself
at the Mac's on
the corner, deciding
which exotic salt
I want to lick
from my fingers,
don't assume it's
a failure of will—
I go to be soothed
by the timeless
casino light
of the aisles,
the drifting sensation
of easy rock,
like the store
has come unmoored
from the city,
a glass submarine
moving under
the surface of night,
bearing its payload
of soft drinks
and frozen burritos
toward daylight.
Enemy territory.
The coolers
humming like two
beers into an evening.
The Keno board
flashing news
of distant loss.
When I pass the gym
with my hand
jammed in a bag
of Doritos I know
I am kin to the man
stretching himself
on a rack, his face
twisted with regret,
the cords in his neck
as thick and red
as Twizzlers.
It's given to both
of us to do the work
that's done at night.
Tending the flame
of suffering.
Passing it
like a torch
from one day
to the next.