Behind the window there is an exercise class

In full swing. The ladies are kneeing – left, right

Like it was their husband's groin they focused on

And the pistons working in their thighs

Were fuelled by some mysterious hate: calories

Men, toddlers, parking spaces. This is their space

For purity of the flesh. Air-con, fluorescence, lino-ed

They burn the fat like souls in hell, they sweat

and taste

Fresh water from a baby's bottle. And one …

and one …

They pelvic-thrust and curve like cats, and hop

and clap

And jump and tap like figure-conscious dervishes.

And the woman in the front, whose model moves

and model size,

Inspire, exhales, screams thirty-something years

with him,

And let me tell you one thing, girls – if you fake it,

it's no sin.