A Ten Poem by James McLain

What is a Ten,
short. tall.
Authentic, a little untrained
table muscle
around the sides.
Massive mammaries,
small,
insignificant ones, pears.
Full juicy's, lips so thin
there hidden,
only time and cotton, show.
Cheeks high and low
hand fulls, how each
changing of the guard.
Hands that would
if I could
lay still to listen
and only the piano
key boards,
ever know.
One thing I do know
I feel sorry
for those starving,
twig gs
that walk the runway now.