Weight-watching, womanly wise guy
Thighs wide as surprised eyes that’ve spied
Spelt flour and sandy bread made of rye.
Mind the gap between your belt holes
Watch the throne with empty, iron bowls
Skinny’s tasty but it ain’t food for the soul.
Pinch the thigh gap as if it’s not all that,
As if it’s all claptrap,
As if it’s just daydreams from dunces in caps,
It’s time to cap that, stack it and stomp that,
It’s time time for bad moods to meet the bottom of her shoes
Miss Martyr in the Doc Martins
Bloody Mary red as if she’s just startin’,
But might call it quits and pack it in
Overdressed in an overcoat
Puffing in a puffa jacket, take it off, jack it in
No breathin’, just wheezin’,
No hearin’, headphones over-ear in here,
Head searing beneath a black woolly hat,
Eyes bleary underneath sheepskin wraps,
She blinks slowly, computer says no
But saddled with jetlag; two dark eyes
Sit like the last minstrels in the bag.
And they meet me each time my gaze strays
To the disappointingly straight face
That disapproves of the words that I create,
Throwing me shade, so I’m eclipsed for days
Day dreaming the meaning of her foul, shadow play.