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Description
Twice now, I've seen him
Between canned corn and beans,
Lumbering through the aisles.

His girth, like a house,
How his poor knees must buckle,
Beneath that bearing load.

His eyes never leave the floor,
He has dissolved,
Into the nothingness he is, always was, ever will be.

Draped in those same sweat pants,
Creased along the legs,
His second mottled grey skin.

And his hair, wet with grease,
Hangs low on his forhead,
Above a bespectacled bloated face.

Like dough,
His face,
Like dough.

I imagine he's never been laid,
A bulging thing like him,
No prom queen was ever that compassionate.

I thought for a moment,
That if given the chance,
I might give him a pity fuck.

But really, I wouldn't,
Because for some reason I am better than him,
Like everyone else.

I never looked in his basket,
But I imagined it filled,
With treats and things, greasey microwave chicken wings.

At the checkout, people keep their distances,
And try not to stare
At his enormous humiliation.

Oh Jacob, what mother
Has set your eyes so low,
And spoon fed your sickness?

What ignorant father,
Never took you out in the yard,
But planted you on the couch instead.

What ill bred aunt turned up her nose,
At your tenth birthday party,
As you took a guilty fourth piece of cake.

What channels do you watch?
Which beaver mags perk your eye?
Masturbation must be your only salvation.

I watch you,
I see your sadness,
Hanging on your slumped shoulders,

Heavy as rot iron,
And permanant.
You'll never be a husband.

Oh Jacob, I thought once
That maybe I'd give you a pity fuck,
No one deserves an unbroken cherry at thirty.

But I never will, because
Your face is like dough,
And I am better than you, like everyone else.

Description
Twice now, I've seen him
Between canned corn and beans,
Lumbering through the aisles.

His girth, like a house,
How his poor knees must buckle,
Beneath that bearing load.

His eyes never leave the floor,
He has dissolved,
Into the nothingness he is, always was, ever will be.

Draped in those same sweat pants,
Creased along the legs,
His second mottled grey skin.

And his hair, wet with grease,
Hangs low on his forhead,
Above a bespectacled bloated face.

Like dough,
His face,
Like dough.

I imagine he's never been laid,
A bulging thing like him,
No prom queen was ever that compassionate.

I thought for a moment,
That if given the chance,
I might give him a pity fuck.

But really, I wouldn't,
Because for some reason I am better than him,
Like everyone else.

I never looked in his basket,
But I imagined it filled,
With treats and things, greasey microwave chicken wings.

At the checkout, people keep their distances,
And try not to stare
At his enormous humiliation.

Oh Jacob, what mother
Has set your eyes so low,
And spoon fed your sickness?

What ignorant father,
Never took you out in the yard,
But planted you on the couch instead.

What ill bred aunt turned up her nose,
At your tenth birthday party,
As you took a guilty fourth piece of cake.

What channels do you watch?
Which beaver mags perk your eye?
Masturbation must be your only salvation.

I watch you,
I see your sadness,
Hanging on your slumped shoulders,

Heavy as rot iron,
And permanant.
You'll never be a husband.

Oh Jacob, I thought once
That maybe I'd give you a pity fuck,
No one deserves an unbroken cherry at thirty.

But I never will, because
Your face is like dough,
And I am better than you, like everyone else.