Lemons

I don’t have a cleavage.
 
If I stuff my boobs
in a push-up bra
all I achieve
is a rising dough effect.
 
My breasts have veined with time.
 
Shy tendrils have
eased across my flesh
and gravity has created
a bean bag consequence.
 
I remember reading
of a young girl’s breasts,
the writer (a male) likened them to lemons,
the kind (I guess) with teated ends.
 
No doubt he saw them
thrusting, impatient
with poking nipples 
permanently erect.
 
All I saw 
was thick rinded yellow
while my mouth wry-filled
with a bitter after taste.

---