I feel most like a dad
when I’m folding clothes
and bingeing a show no one else
in the family likes,
it’s like getting away with something.
I am so bored with myself,
my body’s ebbs and swells
its lazy meandering
away from its best self.
You’d think you could control
what’s inside your own skin
if nothing else —
if I died right now
someone would find me
fat and white and face down
in a heap of my family’s underwear.
It would seem undignified
but at least it’s clean, Jesus,
I’m doing the best I can here.
February 2016, hotel mirror, California—
the last time I loved my human body?
I was alone for the weekend and naked
and doing all right. Now?
I do think my life might be a sitcom
and if the government is watching, they’re
probably mostly annoyed by the laughtrack
and all this time I’ve spent
establishing the premise,
like, let’s go, we get it,
get on with the plot already —
like this. Over and over.
The premise is all there ever was.