I feel fat.
I looked at myself in a store window yesterday.
I had my mask
on, for the matter of that,
thinking on how much hell we’ll have to pay.
I looked fat;
my midriff bulged over my belt.
Other than that, I looked sexy
enough. I had my mask
on, and I was wearing my blue
Bluff Country
shirt—doing my best to look away
from my big fat
Samsung phone, with the orange
clown face
and all the other funny and/or scary
images, which are but a mimed masque
of the nightmare we’ve
tasked
ourselves with witnessing
in our fat
opulence, as the financial
markets
feed the white dream from day to day.
I feel fat,
but I’m wearing my mask.
