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I feel most like a dad
when I’m folding clothes

and bingeing a show no one else
in the family likes,

it’s like getting away with something.
I am so bored with myself,

my body’s ebbs and swells
its lazy meandering

away from its best self.
You’d think you could control

what’s inside your own skin
if nothing else —

if I died right now
someone would find me

fat and white and face down
in a heap of my family’s underwear.

It would seem undignified
but at least it’s clean, Jesus,

I’m doing the best I can here.
February 2016, hotel mirror, California—

the last time I loved my human body?
I was alone for the weekend and naked

and doing all right. Now?
I do think my life might be a sitcom

and if the government is watching, they’re
probably mostly annoyed by the laughtrack

and all this time I’ve spent
establishing the premise,

like, let’s go, we get it,
get on with the plot already —

like this. Over and over.
The premise is all there ever was.