little bras and nighties that hang from wooden hangers
in the chic French lingerie shop with etched birds and leaves
on the windows peeked my curiosity
enough to cross the empty street in neighborhoods where
artists pray their work is sold in galleries that have a ghostly feel
because it's February and nothing seems to sell...
...tiny lady with feathered eyelashes and red stained lips
that protect long teeth with a slight lisp to her words
who says she knows my boobs by my hand to wrist ratio
"try it on, try it on! it's French" she commands
and there I stand in front of mirrored walls with four of me's
dark green velvet curtains to my back with red fringe
and a gap that's painfully uncomfortable
"how's it fit? come out, let me take a look! ah, perfect
distorted and blushed in front of windows, my thoughts
are on a walking plan to melt these winter curves
that come with yearly snow and then the lady whistles words
with a smile, "sweetie, you're not fat, your jeans are too tight."
oh how I wish this neighborhood had an open coffee bar
with scones and chocolates, far cheaper than french bras....