Making Weight

He sat across from nobody and
peeled the sandwich apart to
scrape off the peanut butter.
Except for the hint of peanut butter.
Then he ate the lonely bread
and drank four glasses
of water.

"The bread will expand in my
stomach, and I'll feel like I
ate more," he said white-faced.
Thin. Sick looking. Eyes dark.

A hooded sweatshirt running endless
laps in the gymnasium. Sweating out
evenings.

He did not die that year. Or his junior or
senior year, even if his body
wanted him to. Even if it was
telling him to, he did not.
He spent the hot and cold months
throwing his body against the walls of
youth and succeeding and failing.
Endless running in a sweatshirt.

These things sent him
into college, where he studied and
learned.
After graduating he
designed a lever that goes in the air conditioning
of your car.
All cars have them now. All cars have
them now.

He became wealthy. He could afford all
things. A wife. Children.
He found the way to excess.
The years spread out before him with
colors and reasons and the
vagueness of eternity made its whispers.

Now he lives alone in northern Michigan,
With everyone else.