Forgive me, I’m a little confused.
You judge me for my size,
sneering at my discomfort under your gaze,
believing yourself immune to my
slovenliness or laziness or genetic misfortune.
Oh, I was skinny once;
for about 27 minutes back in 1988.
It felt great to move through the world
with so little drag.
To be lean and aerodynamic
like a precision automobile.
Fainting from hunger in public was a drag though.
It only happened a couple times
because I just couldn’t bear it.
I hate being hungry. And I love food.
Go figger.
But still, you judge me for my size
while wearing three layers under a hoodie
three times too big, and a coat that
a small village in some Third World country
could easily live in —
huh, you judge me for my size,
but it looks to me like maybe you want to be this big, too,
only you don’t want to do the work required to
do it naturally.
That look does not flatter you.
I can’t see your leanness, your curves,
I can’t tell if you are Jack Sprat
(who could eat no fat)
or Mrs. Sprat, who had a name but no one ever wrote it down
and oh, by the way, she was fat.
At least he didn’t keep her
in a pumpkin.