Plahm transforms a bootcamp workout into existential theater. The poem opens with mock bureaucracy—”A Permission Slip— / To survive this”—immediately establishing the central irony: we don’t need permission to push ourselves, yet something in us keeps asking for it. The italicized physical litany (“Sweat drippin’ / Ears ringin’ / Eyes spinin'”) captures the body’s overwhelm with breathless precision, while “Master Drill Sargent” becomes both fitness instructor and philosophical taskmaster “Demanding truth.” The poem’s rhythm mimics interval training—bursts of intensity followed by gasping recovery. The delightful personification of Gustavién the stair stepper (“relentless, / inviting, / always waiting / for you / to step up”) turns gym equipment into a patient mentor. The twist at the midpoint—”Permission Slip— / Denied! / Drop and give me twenty”—is the poem’s best joke and its deepest insight: the only authority that matters refuses to let you quit. The closing reversal—”I / do not need a… / Permission Slip”—arrives as both punchline and hard-won wisdom, earned through sweat.

A propulsive, infectious workout poem that reads like it was written mid-rep. Plahm’s greatest achievement here is rhythm—the staccato lines and italicized body-state inventories create genuine physical momentum that makes the reader feel winded alongside the speaker. The “Master Drill Sargent” conceit works on multiple levels: fitness instructor, inner critic, and ultimately the self demanding its own excellence. Gustavién the stair stepper is a stroke of comic genius—naming the machine transforms it from torture device into training partner. The structural arc from needing permission to rejecting it mirrors the psychological journey of anyone who has ever talked themselves into one more set. The poem’s weakness is also its strength: it’s so kinetically paced that deeper reflection gets pushed aside by momentum. But perhaps that’s the point—sometimes the body’s wisdom arrives not through contemplation but through the simple act of refusing to stop. A poem that makes you want to lace up your shoes.