Ode to Yoga-lates

O, Yoga-lates
I inhale into the pretzel,
and as I balance on my left foot,
stretching my arms toward the ceiling,
I exhale into my next incarnation
as tangled computer wire,
my head hangs in doward facing dog and
my muscles are a wad of rubber bands.
O, Yoga, O (Pil)Lates!
You leave me feeling like
a flacid, popped balloon--
forgotten on the kitchen counter
destined to be the companion of
the ripe banana peel
that, even now, dwells
in the grey flip-top garbage can--
with very sore thighs.