“Don’t mind him,”
says the well-meaning blond boy in the off-brand hoodie,
his voice soft under the barks of drunken laughter
his bright blue eyes offering the slightest condolences
on behalf of the less fair sex
But I do mind him,
and the pack of mangy hounds swarming around the pizza
the lucky bragging about “bagging” like she was a Sephora haul
the unlucky assuring each other that she was only a 4,
all ogling each other’s bodies in a ruthless game of comparison,
evidence of countless hours bound to torture machines
and powdery miracle potions in pursuit of perfection
as if muscles are not vehicles for motion but mere objects of vanity
all while they ridicule their exes for diets and nose jobs
despite the magazines full of airbrushed Kardashians
that they inexplicably still keep next to the john
I watch them consume the pizza,
slicing its rounded shape into digestible fragments,
grabbing it in greedy hands before their brothers can claim it,
spitting projectile crumbs from their foul mouths,
smearing greasy fingers on the sweat-stained rug,
discarding the box atop a heap of dirty underwear,
and I mind a great deal
