Moderation

Six-hundred pounds and maybe eleven feet between them,
the couple holds plastic sacks from the grocer downtown.
I've been strutting the sidewalk, moving fast, trying
to kill time. And there they are, bouncing from right foot
to left, shifting the mass of their hips, those spare tires
made only for a semi-truck on a long, long road.

The plastic strips for handles must be digging
into the potato-dense fingers of the husband while
the wife carries only two, both on her right hand.
The walk continues for blocks, the struggle
protruding a foot from their bellies, those bellies!
I look down at my feet and jump a dying puddle

while the wife's trapeze act shadows her husband.
We are directly across from each other, a sign
framing the horizontal space between us.
They pause at the curb where water laps
upward towards the sidewalk. He steps,
into the refuse, dampening his sweatpants

and reaches a busy hand, motioning her across.
She steps far enough to make a small splash
with the heel of her flip-flop. Down the street
their see-saw bodies wave goodbye.
I walk a straight line to Savages, counting
the calories I saved watching them dance.