Skin and Bones

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SKIN AND BONES


Diesel fuel, for starters, 

and my margin for error

now that I’m a father. 


Apparently the atmosphere 

has followed suit, convinced

the suit accentuates her hips


and now she needs to thin, again. 

And all that I was certain in

politely pushes back from the table,


and as casually as able

slips out and lets the faucet run.

Is this what going home


feels like, the acidic taste

in the back of my throat, 

another loss of something,


and the hollow feeling 

that follows? Bulimic world, 

will you just keep something down?

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