Bending to tie my shoes, my belly pushes
on my diaphragm so
hard I can’t
forcing air into my lungs.
In the mirror I see a 24-pack in a pillow sack.
Got to shoot hoops, run, bike, lift, burn
it off, out -shoot, outrun and out-bike
my ever slowing metabolism.
And I always want a bowl of pasta before my workouts,
pasta, a whole pound of pasta. I can’t not have
seconds, thirds, fourths. I’m well-fed.
I should wear hockey jerseys all the time, like Kevin Smith.
Didn’t people at some point see the well-rounded belly
as a sign of prosperity, that you were well-fed?
That was a time when many people starved,
and emaciation scared folks off,
as if you had some sort of contagious and terminal
My wife rests her head on my belly
and giggles when it gurgles
after the pasta.