How many times in four years
have you flipped the flabby futon
In a futile attempt to extract
the fallow fat from your lower back?
Says he’s smothered by your hips
un-childbirth-worthy
yet he wallows in them,
having absorbed much marsh
waiting for your eventual mothering.
He flollops,
flinging up bits of swamp.
Still fattened,
often I wake sweaty,
dreaming of Squornshellous Zeta
on a mattress I’m sure is named Zem.
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