Bathroom Scales

Each morning I step on the bathroom scales
and the shock of it all never fails
to send me into the day with despair.
How can truth be so cruel and life so unfair?
Why should one pastry cause such a change?
Send me reeling into the obese range?
My bathroom scales lie with such ease;
it has no desire to encourage or please.
After watching the numbers go flying by,
once I’ve recovered from my morning cry,
I yell at my wife and threaten the cat,
cinch up the trousers over all the fat
and run to flag down a yellow cab,
all the while thinking of that little dab
of marmalade on my third piece of toast.
How I long for the day when I can happily boast
of successfully shedding forty pounds,
which means I can then drive straight across town
to my favorite donut-bagel shop
where I will resist the urge to stop
at two bagels, a scone and a chocolate shake.
O, what a difference a few pounds will make.
Til then I will step on those bathroom scales
with hopes that I have not left a visible trail
of Tootsie Roll wrappers in the upstairs hall.
I blame the pandemic for my rapid downfall,
and maybe a donut or two.