It always strikes me, in the
bright morning light
how the line on the cheap bathroom scales stops
always just short - or just long? -
of the magic figure that says
goal achieved. But I tell myself
and anyone else who will listen
that there’s a whole two big bags of spuds
gone already
melting as by magic
from the bits a friend called
stout
what a potent word, that
- stout -
and though the skinny form
of the almost-anorexic
(a word we didn’t know, then)
will never again be smoothly taut
nevertheless that almost-line
makes me feel a bit of me
has beaten the clock
and drives me on:
another bag?
©C.M.M. 06/13
