Seeing Saturn

Friday night with big hairy men
they could be riding Harleys
some wear bandanas as they peer through
large community college telescopes
wide silver cylinders pointed up to dotted dark
between bites of steak and cheese
they ask if I want to see Saturn
she’s clear tonight
they say like sailors looking at the moon
like Saturn sings opera
I sniff the air for beer or pot, but only smell
their sandwiches mixed with May night
they do this every Friday, search the sky
for celestial bodies, for heaven
from earth I join their shabbat
the ring, I see it, planet nestled within
I forget to breathe, then remember
that I too exist

At The Gym

they look in the large mirror,
at biceps or red faces huffing,
breathing during squats or lunges,
shouldered weights pressing
gravity, reps into struggling flesh,

trick a body into staying young,
aging less, iron lifting medicine
like swallowing Omega-3 pills
to keep it all going. They worry
about who might be watching

contours, smooth, hard, flabby,
sagging skin or calves that pop.
They stay indoors listening to loud
music staring at reflections wanting
to halt time, be bigger, be stronger.

As if it were so simple, forgetting
that real strength is invisible, it dwells
immeasurable, unphotographable.
But for them it is easier to put it on
Instagram, pretend, pretend, pretend.