Congratulations on your breast implants

No tongue piercings, tattoos be damned --
impulsive trip, personal gift,
you stand naked to the navel,

nipples sticking out, like lipstick, red,
guinea pig eyes, wild,
bulging with fright. Doctors

with clipboards line up three deep, jostle like deer at salt lick,
sketch out big breasts,

same as their wives -- perfect oceans,
private tides -- saline, not silicone,
proving your choice wise.

Finally the creator, you also puff lips,
make derriere, firm, round, high.
Friends praise you, admire your look;

I paint huge murals of redemption,
sometimes regret, suppress any wish
to sail your new chest.





Timothy Pilgrim