My stomach

It looks like a problem when gazing down at it

But I worry less in a dressing mirror, seeing myself from the side.

Sometimes it's the other way around: but I haven't yet figured out

how that could be possible.

I'm living with it right now; crumpled over in my lap as I type.

I don't want to lift up my shirt,

but if this poem is to proceed, I will need to look,

and possibly poke.

(a moment passes)

I have looked and poked

and have come to the conclusion that

it does not hang loosely; each roll has an agenda.

Each roll has form,

if not necessarily beauty.

It is tight in its own way; for what that's worth.

From above, it looks like a face:

the red trail of hair (the last red hair I own)

is a pirate's beard,

framing the sad mouth

of my navel

I think about it, I rub it, I dwell.

I discreetly check it in public places,

to make sure it hasn't gone out of control:

I check it in the reflective windows of downtown buildings, mostly

since I'm downtown so much

and there are so many women walking around.

I am insecure in every shiny downtown surface

and I check

to make sure it hasn't gone out of control

I take it with me when I seduce women

I have to, what else am I gonna do?

But I downplay it,

because I have seen or imagined

the subtle disappointment in a young maidens eyes

upon my taking off my shirt.

And I think

I may have

sensed them fighting their disappointment,

because they think less of themselves

for paying attention to shallow truths.

Essentially: my stomach causes fights.