When I have carbs, the sugars
are digested in my face, ballooning
my baby fat cheeks to a roundness
that erases the dimples in my smile.
It’s a pencil mark mistake I tend to
enjoy now and again. Soon, a double chin
appears like the teacher that calls you out
of your fantastical Hollywood daydream.
One day I’ll be a starlet…
Instead I say to the bartender,
“I’ll have a another Blue Moon, please.”
They say these carbohydrates are either
simple or complex, but perhaps just confusing
to my body. I’d classify them “Dubious Nutrients”
that have a cruel kindness that makes them
oxymoronic in nature, and I, just the moron
who loves to hate them. Hates to love them.
They don’t actually give me energy or supply
my brain and nervous system with healthy fuel.
They just make me jittery, anxious about
my appearance. I overthink everything and exhaust any
desire to exercise choice, so I make none
a fool out of myself.
“Another Blue Moon?”
“No.” I say. “That only happens once
in a world without end. I’ll take
a Genius, instead.”
“You mean a Guiness?”
Cheers to the past two weeks
of beer, pizza and ice cream!
Here’s to hearty grains and chubby grins
and dresses that know no waistline.
I’m just accentuating my curves…
and celebrating wildly without apology.
“Last call, do you want anything else?”
“Yes, a Rolling Rock.”