Moderation

By: Ryan Rader

Six-hundred pounds and eleven feet between them,
the couple holds plastic sacks from the grocer downtown.
I've been pounding the sidewalk, moving fast, trying
to kill time. They appear, bouncing from right foot
to left, shifting the mass of their hips-- those spare tires--
made only for a semi-truck on a long, long road,

the plastic strips in lieu of handles digging
into the dense fingers of the husband while
the wife carries only two, both on her right hand.
It continues for blocks, the struggle, protrusions
a foot from their bellies, those bellies!
I look down to my feet and jump a dying puddle

while the wife's trapeze act shadows her husband.
We are directly across from each other, a sign
that says NO PARKING just behind her.
They pause at the curb. Water splashes
upward towards the sidewalk. He steps,
into the refuse, dampening his sweatpants

and reaches a heavy hand, motioning her across.
She steps far enough, just a small splash
with the heel of her flip-flop. She made it.
Down the street, their bodies wave goodbye.
I walk a straight line to Savages, counting
the calories I spent watching them dance.

 

 

Ryan J. Rader, at age eight, told a group of fellow children that Santa Claus was not real, and was subsequently grounded by his parents. He has been unable to tell the truth ever since.