Old men have thigh gaps;
wide expanses between those wizened poles,
Skin hanging loosely from faltering limbs.
Despite the thick broth gently forced down their weary throats,
their creases are not smoothed out;
the thigh gap remains.
Memories of firm flesh
haunt their dreams,
Caress their night terrors.
And all the while,
Strutting models court
Fluorescent catwalks;
their coltish limbs permeated by
crippling expectations.
On all sides they fall,
the weak and starving.
Yet absence is not the sickness.
Careful lies envelop
full plates of food.
Retching echoes
accompany the slam of the bin.
And as the pregnant waste spirals
downwards, to the sound of sobbing,
The old men smile
And collapse.