In Praise of Flab
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Go, eat your bread with enjoyment,
and drink your wine with a merry heart.
It has its advantages, middle age.
Oh, there are the mirror’s sneak-attacks,
the sagging cheeks like melting wax,
the clogged comb, the hirsute drain—
a hinge will whinge or complain—
but then there’s these butterfat facts:
I’m too seasoned (or tired) to care
that somebody’s smarter or richer;
I’ve bear-hugged my limits. I’ve learned to forebear,
and leave a few beers in the pitcher.
Lately, I’m thinking some guys look great
with pates as smooth as a pear.
I may write bad lines. I don’t write bad checks.
Or personal ads on the Web. Switching gears,
the b.f. and I still have righteous good sex—
now going on 15+ years.
I admire my buff neighbor, but don’t covet his ass.
I won’t be some old troll who leers.
Like threesomes, Ayn Rand, and flip-flops,
zealotry’s terrible taste
in anyone over thirty, tops.
The palate can be too chaste.
The Preacher says savor that strawberry pie…
Screw vanity! I shall not waste.