Premature

[heslopian]

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.

I agree with Billy, an astonishing piece of verse, ripe like a fresh apple with gorgeous imagery, and dark undertones; you create something so poignant from such a simple scenario. And, like Billy once again, all I can do is compliment the techniques you've used. The third from last stanza, for instance, boasts a highly effective arrangement of words, with the first two lines descending towards that third "bang!" The "bad meal in a greasy spoon" simile is just very good; relatable and somehow deep.
Perhaps part of the reason I feel such an affinity with this poem, why I love it so, is because I've been in the situation (I think) it describes many times myself, where I've been greedy with food and then regretted it. I've written many poems about that weakness of mine, my disgusting appetite, but none anywhere near as profound and beautiful as this.
Subtle, grim, vaguely perverse at times, this is perhaps the best poem that I've read on here, and I've read some good'uns