©Quid Pro Quo
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved
Maybe I have law enforcement genes;
I can't walk passed a bakery
without drooling (read: buying) donuts.
There are red marks on my waist.
I've become the kink,
in the chain of sidewalk fashion
with their flowing dresses,
rolling briefcases, and
good posture and leanness.
My pants are too tight.
It's only ten pounds,
people say in soothing, melodic tones
while whispering behind my back
and laughing: Ohmygod! Twenty pounds! At least!
Skinny jeans and tight T-shirts come in packs;
don't judge me! I prefer my chocolate extra dark.
Bag of groceries splits from the weight;
brie and cream pies and sweet rolls spill;
I trip on the curb rushing to gather them up
as a handsome, expensive suit turns the corner,
turns into me. We both jump apart;
he with athletic ease and grace;
me like a shoved, dressed hog
precariously balanced on one foot.
I contaminate his expensive press job
with my bulging blue jeans
and my rumpled, oversized sweater.
He offers me a lethal smile;
I proffer him a sweet roll—
quid pro quo.