Dear ladder to nowhere, dear Escher sketchmade manifest, thank you for allowingmy broke, hungover body to climb to you,an oblivious ascension, lifting the crescentof my ass so it doesn’t drag on the floorlike it feels like doing most days, mostlywhen the wind carries a crisp apple scentand in my other life I would have put onhis sweater, cranked the thermostat upfor the first time in the fall. Thank you,StairMaster, you burned-down housewith only a staircase remaining, for letting mepretend there are still bedrooms at the topI can enter, children I need to wake in timefor pancakes. Thank you for making me hotterin the loneliest way, for your attached screenon which I watch endless loops of mindlessTV on silent, listening instead to sex-popsongs with a thick beat, reminding myselfof the task underfoot, believing that if T-Paincould see me, he’d be into it, maybeserenade me from the top of the hillI’ll never reach. Girl, it must be a crimeto be as fine as you. Thank you, T-Pain.Thank you, heavy bass. And thank you dear,metal, gaping mouth whose teeth I scaleevery day, whose black mechanics are justwhat a heartless girl like me needs, youwho agree that the artless progressiontoward improved-nudity-viewing is a worthypursuit. Dear body, dear ass, dear ever-harderheart—I owe it all to you, StairMaster. Don’tgive up on me now. I’m not even close.