Same Old Used To Be

I used to be a little man.  Now, I’m fat

as a good pancake. 

Used to be I could slip out

of sight in a crowd of three people

in a living room; now,

everyone pretends I’m not there

but they know.  They know.

I catch them staring at my excessive gut.

I used to be a quiet man.  Now,

I’m noisy as a gas demon in church.

Used to be that when the choir sang,

I opened my mouth and only God could hear;

now, just try and speak over me.  God knows

everyone else does.  I catch them raising their voices

to drown me out: polite SOBs pretending social deafness

to the blurting heap in the corner.

I used to be a wanna be.  Now, I’m what

I thought I might end up as.

Used to be.  Now, I’m not. And

everyone’s obviously in agreement about that.

I catch them smiling once my way

and then I’m not even a memory.

What I gained in mass and volume

never developed density. 

I should have known.