Gathered round the scattered tables
Worshipping their wild carbohydrates
They abandon their false demeaners
To greedily hover above all they are about to devour.
The hours of their sad, lonely, wanton dreams
Are spread across their plates
Mounded high with all that they desire.
Now the conversation fails and
They feed the thing they hate the most.
If only I was thin and lovely but I am not.
Poor me, sad me, lonely me.
Three times a day and more
They clip their own wings.
They lament their flightless lives
And scatter their own feathers like ashes.
They cannot see the doors they will not open
For the windows they fall out of
Three times a day and more.
Kiss them softly anyway.