Cleaning, with Power

No clock.

No coach.

Just a bar and bumpers.

And me.

Open doors. A breeze. Shadows make me tall on the mats.

Jump the weight. Quick elbows.

And the bar pops onto on my shoulders.

If only my troubles could be lifted that easily.

Or yours.

Or anyone's.

Chalking up.

Again I go.

Hands on the bar.

We each do what we can.

Or do we?