Portly Poetry

Where are the bad boems about being fat?

There's enough about lost loves, and lost weekends,
about lost chances, and lost puppies,
but none celebrating pounds lost.

There's many about double crosses and double dating,
about double trouble and double dribble,
but none about the downy soft double chins.

There's thunderstorms, and thunder roads,
and thunder rolls, and thunderchiefs
but try to find one about thunder thighs.

There's poems about Pol Pot, and pot shots,
and flower pots and pot pourri,
just try to find one about a pot belly hiding a belt buckle.

They are few except for the occasional line like,
"Why am I so soft in the middle when the rest of my life
is so hard?"
Thank you Paul Simon
I should have known that you
a middle aged urban prophet
would go where no man has gone
while Ginzberg and Ferlinghetti
"howl" at my rising moon.