waiting, it lies
licking it's pale, dry lips
and folding it's clawed hands
like thin, empty oragami paper
bursting from a jelly carapace
drooling greedily, it takes hand
of all anywhere, anything.
crinkling packages, making fingers coated
with flakes and cream and calories
drenched in self-pity.
then, alas, it is done.
tongues of fury flame to bobbing
so much roundness,
boil and bubble, scald and thicken.
sweet and thick and shiny and dripping.
the next day, it gurgles
mutters in high, apologetic voice
but it cannot shrink
the ugliness that swells.
nor can I fix it
through strained tears from concentrate
so they stay in,
red-faced and shaking.