The fat man spoke of fish,
only he was drawn,

head shaved athletic,
rug-beard cleaned up,

outfit black,
New Yorkish,

metal specs selected,
not got.

His précis—feria. Dónde?
Nicaragua. Portion, extra grande

doble! A guapote, lake-lurking
bully dealt with wicked,

scored and salted. Battered.
Taught its tender side.

Fit man spoke of fish,
then called for veggies—

well, for veg-adjacents:
hummus, falafel, baba-frigging-

ganoush. No pita sheets.
Was that shiver, lack of comfort

in the tight back booth?
His two new still-fat friends-them

nyamming chicken,
probing beef lobes.

Stew juice gouached
rice bowls.

New friends listened, sipping.
Water, Turkish coffee,

Gilbey’s gin. Followed reminiscing
to the gist: flesh missed.

Old friend, me, barely fit-ish,
eyed bread, impatient,

as my once-fat friend fed muse.
I ate soup with good mouthfeel—

and with relish,
turned alabanza for oil,

for cumin—for the give-in
to the blade by lamb fat,

for what I peppered: questions,
details. Town?

Granada. When?
A year, what the fuck.

With notes I’ll do duty:
dream fish deep fried

the way the ex-fat man
spoke it. His whale.

Take the vegan torture
off his mind.