Premature

[Todd]

The Bulge bloated
like that extra slice of cheesecake.
Nothing expansive:
the rack of lamb, red potatoes

of normal mothers
with smiles not sealed
behind pained zippers. It was a gallstone:
insipid anguish, nothing more

to be forgotten
not spoken beyond whispers.
It was astonishing
that this tinyredwrinkled thing could breathe

its wet wheezes.
No bigger than one of those asthmatic handbag
dogs, silent judges
and mocking with their pretty,

pale blue bows.
There would be no cigars, no handshakes,
no glad slaps on shoulders.
The room filled with pained grins,

vapid apologies,
like sitting constipated
in a public bathroom stall
listening for each quick rattle,

each agitated
successive
Bang!
As patrons come then go.

It lingered afterwards
like a bad meal in a greasy spoon.
You paid, and paid, and paid,
too sickened to eat, too guilty to leave

the Styrofoam box behind--
The damning evidence
of leftovers:
unwanted, undigested.