Prone, face up,
on the foam roller I lay.
Assessing trigger point soreness,
tired from a chilled winter’s day.
Past rising shadowed wall,
as I veer forty-five to the right,
beyond the row of three switches
the eyes grasp slim, vertical light.
A photo op presents,
In almost black and blatant white,
with clever shades of gray.
Not fifty, but a few of routine rite.
To the left I roll and find the floor,
stretching for the electronic brick.
A bit of a workout I dare say,
I grab the device and click.