I especially appreciate
the posture of women
after they are well fed;
The belly bows forward,
toward toes, clicking.
Shoulders pull back
in dramatic contorts,
only rivaled by a tiger, prowling.
Bosoms round and bounding;
A belch.
She appreciates the feast.
These feelings are mutual.
She dabs a napkin
to both sides of her cheeks.
The legs roll up straight
from where she is sitting—
and crash down
like a guillotine,
beneath two sorts of skirts.
One is ruffled with lace;
The other is expecting dessert.
Both will be soiled—
requiring a soak,
before she may be excused
from the table I served her
this four course meal.

narrative poem written on 12-14-2010 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem


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