Lard clings to my jelly belly and assimus maximus, but melts away elsewhere. Bullshit! It doesn’t melt. That’s poet talk, and yesterday’s wine is tomorrow’s vinegar. Melts becomes drips becomes oozes becomes slippery. “Pare away pretty poetry,” I beg my puffed up parody in the mirror. “Stand up straight. Drop the mask. Shed the costumery. Lose the skin of the lion…” If ...