One day, I will solidify like butter;
it will be, at last, too late to change.
I will be kept in a refrigerated room,
behind glass. Tour groups will come
to look at me; I will be an example of
poor diet, inactivity. The wages of sin.
Children who beg for corn dogs will be

asked, Do you want to be like the
Butter Lady? No one will know that
my ears still work, and my brain,
which will strain through creamy
sludge to instruct rigid limbs
to punch, kick, smash the glass,
let the warm, kind air come in.




For PAD Challenge, Day 3 (prompt: Write a poem that scares you.) Also for NaBloPoMo.


2 thoughts on “Chiller

    • Thank you! I have recently committed to 150 minutes of exercise (which I was surprised to learn is the new minimum standard), and one reason I did that is that I imagined that maybe my blood was starting to take on a butter-like consistency. 🙂 So, that’s how this poem arose.

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