Bench-pressing Anvils

At the fair there was a man
bench-pressing anvils - his
shirt's short sleeves stretched
taught across his biceps -
strained and sweat-soaked
muscles all curves and cut.
His veins raised
like an atlas of alternate avenues
from heart to sinew,
sinew to heart.
The man grunts with effort,
every molecule exerted
upward. Forward. Farther.
His teeth grit against each other,
and I'm sure he can hear it
in his head, a grinding constant
against the pounding of his heart.
the pounding of his heart.
pounding heart.
pounding.
teeth grinding.
And I think,
"If he should slip and drop
that steel upon his giant chest,
he'd feel the escape of his breath,
the onset of physical emptiness,
and he'd look at me and he'd
understand."