Poetic License: My pot runneth over
(Staring At My Pot Belly on a Slow Prime Time Evening)
Whose pot this is I think I know:
I knew him forty pounds ago,
With ribs that showed and stomach flat
Now buried ‘neath a mound of fat
That rises slowly toward the skies
Each time upon his couch he lies
With after-dinner belly bloat,
Doing his push-ups on remote,
Lifting his head to see the screen
And read closed captions in-between
The thighs once powerful, now subsumed
By all the goodies he’s consumed.
My full-length mirror makes it clear
There are two persons dwelling here:
The one within is thin and svelte,
The one without – a fifty belt;
The one below no longer grows,
The one above can’t see his toes.
One finds inside his closet door
Parallel worlds of clothes he wore,
The other tries them on in hope
Time travel will extend their scope,
But through each rack of universe
The waistline fit gets worse and worse.
In many cultures a belly proves
The man above has made his moves.
A “fair round belly” in Shakespeare’s age
Meant “most successful” on life’s stage.
If that old theory does still prevail,
I’m Bill Gates now on global scale.
My beautiful wife should get the prize:
She’s watched the belly grow and rise,
She’ll pat it fondly and she’ll stick
By me through thick and thin – and thick,
Reminding me it’s time to start
A diet that may help my heart,
Cause inches off my waist to peel
And give me back my old appeal.
Some other benefits she does propose
I’m too embarrassed to disclose,
But I succumb, promising to start
My diet tomorrow, cross my heart.
Tonight upon my couch I’ll lie
And point my belly toward the sky,
With my remote in full control
I’ll watch it down my belly roll.
Roll over once, roll over twice,
After pasta, roll over thrice.
Roll the remote’s a game I play
To keep the re-run blues away
And put my belly to some use,
Give me relief from pot abuse.
My pot is full and round and deep,
And I have promises to keep –
But please, one snack before I sleep,
One snack to go before I sleep.