let's go get some bacon-wrapped goat cheese,
because that sweater you're wearing,
tied up the way it is under your breasts,
shows off the soft fall of old flesh,
and I want to be near that.
I know what the pearlized scars from change
look like on my thighs,
but I want to see those lines thin,
long and corrugated in toward one another,
ranging down your skin toward the nipple.
I would brush against those fine hairs
and roll soft skin between my thumb and forefinger
where it would feel papery and light as refined silk.
They would fall and hang apart against your belly,
looking this way and that,
less focused since they lost their fat,
and I would hold them together to see
where one was darker, more dimpled, harder.
But first, droopy-boobed lady, we'll do this right,
and you and me'll go get some bacon-wrapped goat cheese together.