On seeing a barmaid's tit

I went to get a prawn cocktail paprika on
white and a pint of Warsteiner; I got an eyeful.
It was out the blue top she wore, the bargirl,
a big-for-nineteen. Her face was the one those
jammy-dodger-like treats from childhood had,

the smile a baby makes when it soils itself.

Picture me at the bar. She, behind, faced me, a dwarf
laid flat to my left. The space dropped by careless
closure brought to thoughts the inside of a dome
tent pitched on vertical ground. Petite lace bra
was now - philosophical, sure - merely an ill-fitting

sling beneath a small slightly amoebic rugby ball.
A dummy part at the zenith. Maybe the one

they model dummies on.

Doubt it.

A comedy sketch ensues. Her towards me; my head,
raised, forwards. Her steps retraced; gaze back to
former glories. My cheek is attached to her chest

by imaginary string

tis my first sighting -
non-my-girl, non-griddled-in-the-med-sun,
for two years.

The chemistry teacher didn't spot it. This one wouldn't.
Those die-hard sulphur-dioxide practicals with bottom sets
blew up in the face, peepers partially blinded by science.

She's a woman anyway; very final about "playing away":
No looking, no thinking, no breathing, no nothing. Not
even my girlthing is that romantic. She knows even faithful
men's eyes are mini Tory politicians. Surface bit slimy.
But they do not touch like fingertips do: less clumsy,

our mind
less a sewer
than a seedy hotel.