He was fat in the corner.
The walls stood straight to crest the ceiling in place.
The boy’s arches were eroded enough to roll him out his created abode.
But it stuck between the sharpness of its lines pin cushioned on his body.
It blocked its concrete sound.
It nailed his waist into the water of floor as if it was holding buoyancy.
The floor which was like an ocean hung his body to only sit and stay.  
This is where he would sit.
This is where he viewed his world.
With his Cable T.V., he viewed the world.
He became them in a sense of what they know.
Sometimes he was the sailor man saving the gal in the red turtleneck.
Sometimes he just wanted more than ****** snacks.
It was the static that came into it and the tremor of the popguns and bicycle punches.
His costume was the hand that drove into his pocket for yellow spheres of his personal favorite.

His fingers would unwrap the same world over and over again.
No matter how many copies.
They were in wrappers.
They were in silver lings of the stuff in what was known to stick and to sit on my palm like reflected sunsets.
These were in forgotten little notes to the odes of what was the turn of his tongue. He loved being sweet.
He loved to chew it ever so darling.
He crunched.
His mouth builds a castle.
To the eyes arrived in clouded visions coming from within.
As the teeth gnash off to the nectars and nips of sugar, butter, milk in *****, the crystals vanish.
They dazzled the eyes with images from the inside.
It was the way it took into him.
His cheeks became lambent as they were sagging off his face.  
In the motion was a peripheral point of the lips.
It would drag him into crave.
No more of waiting for it to melt.

The time was hung out to see the beat of his little heart.
He could have no more candy.
20 years later, he should have nothing more.
It was enough to make the scale rotate against zero.
But no one measured his content.
No one measured the happy in his heart.  
No one knew that what he wanted was just to taste the good.
He just wanted the tip of the tongue
To take him beyond a state of sitting and standing without really moving.
He wanted to walk on ice but float above its glass.
But he was going to die.
He would. He would eventually. They would say. Mother said.
Mother said this in her prim voice with all the promises of chocolate coated crisps in the world. He will choose to smile.
But here he is. He is still alive.
He is still rolling into the rears of his rounds.
He still loves what he is.
He still loves what he ate.
The choice of change is in his grip and so are his pockets.
They are still full of his old favorites.
He will take them when God takes him into his pockets.
He will be sweet.
He will be his own butterball.
He will be wrapped in what is 25 years.