It’s an immaculate metonym for a filthy system -
The crisp suit dresses a fat flesh
Bubbling through the buttonholes pulled to their potential
But they will never burst.

And the suits, they snicker at the retards;
As though slowness was the greatest sin
In a world where excess serves as the nexus for restless and the rest of us who suffer with less than that which we need.

And need, for us, is a house where doors blow open with gusts of winds in the cold
And where windows clamp down eternally in a heat.
Where beds are vacant, but attics and basements
Are full with a necessary refuse;

This home is a leper.
A filthy metaphor for a rumor of comfort
Where lechery stalks the hallways
And creeks on bare-wood floors.
Cries, they echo in infinity,
Just as he carried her through the threshold,
Just as pushing a bolder up a hill.

His suit was a tux that day, her dress,
It hid the bulge well.
And the retard, it sat there.