Underwired

You think that beneath the surface
of that heaving bosom
impressively large and pert
there burns a passion, sir?
You are wrong.

Its energy was long ago harnessed,
controlled, and kept at bay.
They stand aloof,
not reaching out, as you
would have them.

The breasts are soft but sore and sensitive,
heavy with years and fears and loss.
But passion — that I think
you will not find.

What lies beneath
that matronly scaffolded façade?
A mind, sir.
A mind.