For puddings – yes.
We stir the pot, watchful,
hoping for the transformation
of something liquid into something
jelled, spoonable, not drinkable.

For human torsos – no.
We suck in stomachs, inflate ribs,
hoping to transform our pudges
into something svelte.

It’s the Isaac Newton curse, the pull
of gravity that turns our skins molten
as stained glass in ancient windows.
Sitting, we become triangle,
broader on the bottom side.

We acquire the paunch, the wiggle, the sag
that testify to the discrepancy
between caloric intake
and kinetic outflow.
With no easy remedy, we resort to camouflage.