FridayI August

Bra Lady’s Holiday

She is on holiday.
Not a grand vacances,
No great exodus,
Just a long weekend at home.
Lord knows she is owning her well earned break.

Expression expansive,
Arms akimbo,
Over a blonde demi or two.
Friends come and go.
A couple, possibly your daughter and her husband,
Join you for a few.
And the barman’s chatty.

It is all the same to you.
Holiday time is the one time, time doesn’t matter.
Usually it’s bell ring after bell ring.
Your hall full of bikes, brollies and coats.
Your house full of women after a piece of mammary magic.

Your big breasts are firmly stacked.
You wouldn’t wear grey nylon.
Wouldn’t even touch the stuff.
Your bra is purple satin
With a polka dot pattern.
Whale bone stays
And blue lacy bows.

You are the Ghent bra lady.
Welcoming the great unmeasured
Worldly underwear oracle.
With your left hand you judge the cup.
The rest is mammary alchemy.

The bra emporium is a legendary lingerie sanatorium.
Where all underwear crimes are gently ironed out.
The room is strung with selected fabrics,  
Trailing from ceiling to floor.
Brocade, velvet and silk.
A flowerbed of fabric.
Brush and cushion in the glooming hush of a down lit living room.

Her tarnished blonde hair is twisted into a perfect chignon.
And her deep brown tan emanates below heavy kohled eyes and thick red lips.
She is the bra lady and in her hands miracles are performed.
A mammery mystic.



------ End of Forwarded Message