Whither now hunker-shins?
You have a sweet countenance
a squat grace,
always middle-aged
on the contrary edge
of a speeding sun.

Another swift day has begun
yet you sit here
among the traffic
a bold bladder
quelling gravity
with a parceled
low-sprung serenity.

Dumpy lounger,
you deep-seated recliner,
over crooked shanks,
upholstered hams.

Lumpy Mona Lisa,
plain as a hammer-head.
Your come-hither girth
a painted slug.
Just a thin membrane
between you and chaos,
your beaded blob

And your skin,
So thickly spread,
an alien chiaroscuro,
a candle-lit atlas,
and in the corrugations
a blank-brow”d light
where truculent Thor
gleams out,
from behind
your world-dismissing
Buddha smile.