Clotted cream dotted with cherry bits — then drips down
Hind to wasteland of waistband; doughy, disordered.
Nice ones say it’s cute;
Eyes averted from bulbous belly.
Dumb ones say it’s sweet,
Content in oblivion's cheek.
House shudders, dreading its return. Bits of fabric
Peel away from skin, dangle, escape to rain-soaked
Pavement. Wreck shrieks, not revs.
They say its special.
Every night, it prays they're right.
© Crystal Charee — Original Work
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