I’m going to tell you my friend’s theory
on the cove or ogee of belly-buttons,
those vestiges of utter dependence we carry
through life, cut free, under the misbelief
we wield control over things.
Regarding hidden agendas, my friend says
Innies and Outies reverse the disrepute
cranial lumps earned for themselves
in physiognomy. For him, navelognomy
beats out race track touts for picking treachery.
Now as an Innie myself, I naturally assumed
that that tuck-in of my umbilicum,
retracted like a sour pucker, beyond view,
prone to lint and odoriferousness,
would suggest, upon analysis,
a mole or shrew, furtive in its milieu.
Though result of rubber-gloved handiwork
at onset of one’s physicality, showing skill,
or at least economy, the lifelong wearing
of an Innie’s obscurity is bound
to have effect on one’s modus operandi.
But no, my friend asserts—and you might
take this seriously since he graduated
from Phoenix University—Outies are
sneaky, for like so much that appears to be
and isn’t, it seems the Outie, in its flagrant
protuberance is more the schemer-indicator.
Now if you’re wary of my friend’s theory,
join the club. He professes his dictum
showing me his belly, and telling me
he’s not to be trusted, but I’d say his button’s
hemorrhoidial—not convincing in its
fellowship with either button-shape, thus,
an outlier—too mishapen to be conspiratorial.