Fix-it Fats

When I first heard of Fix-it Fats, I charged
my negativity (he who hangs crepe), and
scared him since he must have sat down
‘cause I ain’t heard from him lately.
He was always doin’ his hangin’,
sayin’ my plantar fasciitis won’t
get better, ever.
But in my charge I spoke to him of
these new Fix-it Fats that had all those
regenerative cells, and that seemed good.

So he sits now somewhere in a dark corner
or beneath a staircase, Mr. Negativity does,
as good old Doctor Pierce sucks fat with
syringe from my fold (love handles can
afford it), and then does something to
that cheesy mass like in a CSI lab,
and gets at those cells.

Later, rotund Pierce returns
in long smock, smug as death
and taxicabs, shaking another syringe
and humming.  I ask, “What of it?” and
he says, “You betcha,” and I just sit there
with my foot up, minus a sock. 

Pierce pokes a bit at bare foot
and I lean back a-ways.  He numbs
heel and we pass chat back and forth
like un-made up minds--for it is like
words icy and thin, and no one wants
to field the cold.

After another while he injects me
and we both root for Fix-it Fats,
not as if we were at a baseball
game but good enough for the
office.  The nurse turns and
says something about lunch
and gives me a nod.  Some
more time goes by, and I
flex my foot, slide from
the table and exclaim,
“Doctor, I can walk!”


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Co-Winner
3-21-16