from the one screenshot I took of you years ago,
and aside from the Boston Red Sox hat
you look pretty damn fit.
I am always over here, hoping you get fat and gross,
which is mostly out of egotistical selfish spite,
because I have cancer again yet here I am
writing dumb poems about you still.
if you read this and hesitate in the slightest,
I ask is that you not dismiss that—
at least for ten seconds—and try to dwell in it,
and then call me.