She walked painfully upon swollen ankles

her weight making her lumber and waddle

on unseen musculature of strength and determination

that would not fail

in her efforts to negotiate her distance

across the vein of life that

was her own to reap and stope.

Stave and elope

without messages of farewell.

Her business was her own,

lone and collective the weight watchers

of the world, they wait,

for your blind eyes to glimmer

with the light of patient understanding

from your deathbed.

Fat life, thin life, equal parts

of a hole called do-nut by a motorcycling

hero called Che, revolutionary calling

for a wheel spinning poet.

Tread marks on your abdomen,

for michelins burn the best

around the necks of traitorous

catwalk models.




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