Deadlift

He leans over the greasy machine 
in a sweat-soaked tank, barring my escape 
a lecherous smirk as he looks down on me 
and asks, “How much can you deadlift, babe?” 
 

His leering eyes, like those of a hundred men before 
The whistles on the street en route to the grocery store 
The whispered slurs under whiskey breath 
The invitations tinged with the threat of death 
I deadlift it all, a thousand reps in a thousand sets, 
with no rest days — only constant sweat