Eating Disorder

A poem
by Chris Hibbard

Eating Disorder


One fine day, as I was looking in my toolkit
I found to my surprise
That that thing I’d carried for so very long
Was a half empty box of fries

But I took them home and I washed them off
And I put them in my mouth
But they were very stale and so very cold
And simply not very good at all

So I spit them out on the kitchen floor
And promptly had to clean them up
Because my mom came in
And she yelled at me
And she grounded me
And she glared at me
As if she wanted to slap my face

One fine day, as I was searching through my lunchbox
I found to my dismay
That that thing I’d bought at that flea market
Was a three-year-old fish filet
Yet I took it home and I rinsed it off
And I stuck it in my mouth
But it was petrified and I was petrified
For it made me feel quite bad inside

And then my dad came in
And he hit the roof
And he pushed me down to the floor
And my mom came in
And she screamed at me
And we were off to family therapy

The doctor he asked such lame questions
Like “How do you feel about this?”
And “What do you think your mother’s tears are about?”
Meanwhile I think
‘I don’t know. Why ask me?’
‘She’s the one cryin’, I’m not cryin’
And I barked at him
And he threw me out

One fine day, I was rifling through my glove box
And I found to my delight
That amongst the napkins and tickets
Tucked behind the beer and the gun
Was an old favoured picture of a special someone

So I took it home and I wiped it off
And I shoved it in my mouth
But it was very dry and it hurt my tongue
Barely edible if in fact at all

Just then my wife came in
and she scowled at me
And threw a glass at me
And my son came in and he blew a fuse
And he cracked me in the jaw
And then my mom came in
She’s been living here with me
And after spitting called me a disgrace to the family

The nurses in this hospital all hate me
The doctor just comes in to sedate me
While the pudding is cold
And the roast beef is hot
Mysterious and unusual the menu is not

~ by Chris Hibbard on November 4, 2008.

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