Hot Enchiladas

My stomach is a potbellied stove,
big, fat and full, rounded out,
expansion free, not hard as steel
but soft as a balloon. If helium filled
the crannies between food and tea,
I believe I'd pop, burst into a
skinny Minnie. Instead, I wish
someone could lift me with a crane,
gently place me in a wheelbarrow,
roll me out to the car. I can't get up.
My stomach rumbles with burning
embers, flickering sparks, ravage
the sides. I grumble in misery,
pain so bad it is good, like a large
pan filled with beans, rice, lettuce,
tomato and lots of tortillas, enchilada
sauce and lots of guacamole
and hot salsa on top, guaranteed
to move me the following day.