My middle aged middle, getting too big to ignore. A black hole in space on my sofa now, taking my body over, surrounded by asteroid blinkers. You know, stars. Like constellations gone Broadway pointing at my marquis middle, my thighs, like some melting pot junkyard in the Pacific, or creeping on earth fingery thing like the junkyard twenty minutes from here taking over the good earth, like the crazed duplication of found-agains, so many God-soaped faces in one place, so lost, so found, so lost again in so little time, like pom-pom pinks in rock gardens, stuffy straw hat garden parties way out of my league. Showhouse gals, sipping tea, some flying high on morning cocktails without a net, no pain, no gain, pains in the arse, to be or not to be a somebody, to do so or not do so, to not die all pummel meat done in the end. To do the day’s exercise or not. Aw, the heck with it. I roll over, roll the die again, then get up and go. I just do it, walk first, then write my first line.