Tag

A part of you’s the fat kid,
out of breath, and so unfit
for anything that when

they’re playing ‘tag’ you’re
always ‘it’ – and all that
you can do is lumber after

all their reeling skinny asses,
making slo-mo passes
that are so far off the mark

it just increases the fat
certainty that you'll forever
lack whatever spark

ignites in them. And when
those horrors end, and they
lose interest in your elephant

meanderings and mewling
that they aren’t being fair,
you plop down like a lonely

pudding, gasp for air,
and know down to your
last beleaguered over-padded

toe bone absolutely
nothing in the world can
get you out of here to there.

But sometimes you’re
the fat kid’s air. Queer!
You’re neither there nor here.


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