by Mark Vogel
In the old days bloat wasn’t a given:
1950s wiry guys hung out at the gas station
smoking, their oil stained shirts concealing
bony chests. In the old days shirtless
construction workers with bronzed
rope-like biceps didn’t work out.
Coeds lay in belly button wonder
under the first nurturing sun,
just right as a way of life.
In stark, tiny houses, close and tight,
kids spilled from windows seeking
freedom from shaved authorities
lurking in pressed uniforms.
Grapes of Wrath stark black and white
was more than a memory.
In the old days lunch was bologna
on white bread with pickles, chips
and milk. Self-propelled mowers
and bikes with gears were for the rich.
Working for your uncle was your
ticket to a future.
As the belly expands
in bloat, a marshmallow future
looms with genitalia receding
from view. Today panic replaces
breakfast. Short and squat, we
waddle to the car
with fat on the brain.
