of course he is the winner–
gold-plated decadence sits on mahogany,
“JIM HALPERT” reads victoriously
as my envy turns to vengeance.
he is effortless,
I am flawed;
he, a ripe sweet potato & I, a bruised beet.
my mauve flesh is raw & brittle.
Jim’s Ipomoea Batatas skin is firm,
it holds with dignity,
something I now lack.
I am not a joke,
yet I remain the laughing stock of Dunder Mifflin.
they look at me with shame & regret,
but Jim Halpert is idolized.
he is the one who gets the girl,
while I sit like a bear in hibernation,
gluttonous & indolent.
he was born to conquer–
& I was born to only be the soil on his shoe.