augury doggerel

Monday, November 18, 2002


He's big. The half-inflated skin balloon about his skull is heavier, counting jowls on jowly jowls, than most ripe watermelons. His leather jacket could be a whole humped cattle skin, seamless. And the rest of the team. Around the table, maybe two tons. They have to push one another out of the way when they reach. Around the urinal, a lake. They must piss like racehorses, on all fours and munching unaware.

The fat cook, a mild sort of big, stands in the kitchen door and lifts his lower lip into an inadvertent frown. He likes this sprawl of haunches, though most of these guys haven't eaten. Maybe he was a butcher.


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