hanging over
a hunk of ham, of flesh
a slice of the delicatessen
in my fever dreams

slices, and chunks
ripples of sinfully sweet
saccharine and corn
dripping and my senses

I but pinch my sides
bruised by the too-tight denims
that cut between the cheeks of my
meandering butt

it always hurts like hell
again, and again

as I look at the emaciated
hoochie mamas
with their belly-tanks,
their platform shoes that do not crack
from the burden,
the silver crosses caressing their firm breasts

my hands find the hardening tips
hanging over a draping middle
to squeeze, and squeeze

This work is copyright 1999 The Accounts and Shirley Siaton-Parabia.
Please do not take, repost or distribute in any form without express written permission.