We women measure our worth
by the fit of our clothes.
Cloistered in too tight pants
we burn inwardly as fat bubbles
outward over buttons left
Small surprises bring subtle smiles
to an otherwise ordinary day
but a red ring a the waist constricts
And we wither.
We think not of looking like models
but of money now wasted, wondering
whether to donate to Goodwill or wait
for the day our lives will be perfect.
Tired, from slipping on stretch pants
We go to the gas station
to buy a vanilla latté, large.

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