that shirt
probably fit him
once
but not today
the cool breeze
slapping through the treetops
says hello
to his bare, bulbous belly
(but there is no answer)
he is busy
eating
a polish sausage
these sounds
with every bite:
labored breaths through
narrow nasal passages,
wax paper crinkling
beneath pudgy fingertips,
wings fluttering
as attentive pigeons
jockey for position
(should some small morsel fall)
and then one does
the slippery slice
of onion
slides off his sausage,
and
drops
straight
onto
his
stomach
this, he notices
and as quickly as it fell,
he scoops it up
slurps it down
and catches me staring at him
his revenge is swift:
two hands encircle
his shiny, oil-stained navel,
one quick shake
in my direction
and he returns
to his meal
he’s shown me
his belly bagel
and deep down,
i know i deserve it
