The Café

It’s okay to look at me. 
Don’t be afraid. 
It isn’t contagious. 
Please don’t shy away. 

Excuse me, Miss. 
You with the sideways glances. 
I know what you think. 
How can people live that way? 
I wish I could answer that. 
I’ve never figured it out myself. 
I guess it’s just how I am. 

And you, Sir, over there, 
I can see from the smirk on your lips 
That when you get home tonight 
You will tell your slim lovely wife 
About the absolutely massive woman 
You saw in the café this morning. 
‘If I ever get like that, hon, shoot me,’ 
You will say in all earnest, 
And your slim lovely wife in all earnest will reply, 
‘If you ever get like THAT, my darling, 
I won’t be around to watch you die.’ 

And you, little one, are you four or five? 
‘Look at that lady,’ you say to your mum, 
Staring at me with eyes wide. 
It hurts but I forgive you. 
You are small, innocent. 
You cannot help how you react. 
You know instinctively the wrong. 
But your mother I can’t forgive, 
Though she tells you it’s rude to stare. 
Because you can’t take your eyes off me now, 
Can you, mummy dear? 

But you, young man, you’re fifteen. 
There’s no excuse for how you behave. 
Then again, maybe there is. 
Because is that behaviour your fault, 
Or the fault of the society 
That has taught you I’m subhuman 
And a legitimate target for your hate? 
Can’t say for sure but, either way, 
I hope you wise up as you grow up. 

Oh, but you, my sister-in-size, 
I expect a smile from you. 
One plays on my lips as our eyes meet 
But the way you look at me…? 
Oh yes, I know that look. 
I’ve sometimes cast it, albeit rarely, on others too. 
It says with judgment, relief, denial, 
At least I’m not as bad as you.