ReConfigured: Lady Curvaceous And Lady CoyPool, 1

Two fulsome beauties, shaped exactly

alike; friends since high school

(where they clung together as

the haters, garbed in haute couture,

banished them to unpopularity

with the most virulent verbal bullying);

 

now, years beyond all that, they have

dressed alike for the thrill of it---

tank tops, denim cut-off shorts

that do not much conceal their lace

garter straps that clasp their tan stockings

(sheer to the reinforcements at toes and heels);

but both pairs of shoes are somewhere else in the house.

 

They move around the billiard table,

taking their shots, making the balls smack
together, seemingly random efforts,

as they giggle together;

even despite the high school's haters,

they experienced their own good times---

sleepovers, study sessions, and late nights on weekends

talking on their CB radios

(where they were well accepted and welcomed,

known by the handles they still bear today).

They recall all this with the deep amusement

that only profound friendship can provide.

 

Both now both receive and enjoy

the homage of poets whose words proclaim

the beauty of their ample shapes,

the softness of curves

(what magazine model Emaciates

can never hope to share).

 

And I, when my turn comes at the table,

consistently miss every shot for which I aim:

I suppose my trembling hands are to blame,

and concentration on so much beauty,

rather than on the skils required for billiards.

Later, with Lady Curvaceous,

I shall come to other conclusions;

and with them, I think, the lines of this poem.

 

Starward 

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