Fat Model

Fat Model

Her breasts, like torpedoes punch out
demanding their space.
The dusk forms shadows around them.
Yellow and brown contrast with
the milk white flesh of her arm,
and you feel that if you could flick
your fingers on her dimpled buttock
the sound would be a tap dripping,
or a table tennis game
with the ball pinging
and ponging.

She lies still; wasting time.
Her pubic hair looks sharp,
a field of dead trees bristling awkardly out
on this landscape of soft barley fields
and gentle hills.
She always keeps her nails long.
Sharp and thin, they don't look right
and so I pretend they're short.
To the others she is a Goddess;
fertile, anxious, rotund.
To me she is a snowman
and has five pudgy chipolatas pushed into each limb.
What she is thinking I have no idea.
She lies there, still unmoving, as if
she is waiting for the table tennis to begin.