Gutless

My gut hangs out above the scale that calculates —
it couldn’t just estimate my weight —
but once, just for laughs, I wish it’d scan
a one-forty-five, a slender, gutless man.
But no — heartless, refusing to prevaricate,
it shows an anal one-sixty-nine point eight.
I curse that extra brownie that I ate
last night; my belt slips a notch as I expand,
and my gut hangs out.
I glance askance at my profile silhouette
mocking from the window glass and rate
my rounded waistband (which I can’t stand)
against the washboard abs I have in candyland.
So sucking in until I’m past, I re-inflate,
and my gut hangs out.