©Quid Pro Quo
Mimi Wolske
Mimi Wolske-Mona
Arizona™
October 2014
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,
discombobulated,
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.
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