Room On Top
When I was young I knew my boobs were far
from perfect, so I coaxed them to the norm
with ends of a baguette, stuffed in a bra
that revelled in the name of Maidenform.
As time went by, they ceased to seem inferior;
they grew, they pulled, they firmed and filled and fed.
They ticked the box in each of the criteria
for boobs, without resort to bits of bread.
And then the lump, the panic and the knife.
The simple common sense of giving up
a pound or so of flesh to keep a life.
A broken jug swapped for an empty cup.
So once again I turn to kitchen gimmicks
to counteract a unilateral sag.
A miracle of silicone that mimics
a chicken fillet in a plastic bag.
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