At the gym I’m told that I need a code
to enter the locker room which must be
guarded from ghosts of old treadmill walkers.

There’s no shower. You have to go
to another locker room a floor down for that.
I wonder about Christ The King. How cool

to have a locker room named for you.
Can’t he enter without a code? Fade
through the wall—if anyone wants

to steal from him, he’d know already. So far
I haven’t seen him there. Perhaps
he sees me but, the quiet type, he tries

not to be in my way. Sneakers
and jock straps, what a place for him
to spread some heaven. I think I heard him

coming out of a spigot. It could have been
Betty White for all I know. Dressed
and ready for my “work out,” I leave

Christ The King for the stationery bike,
John the Baptist rowing
so fast that the whole gym floats away.