Long piano player fingers 
and large pencil eraser nipples 
Perfect parts on an aging body

The rest of my breasts too small
to satisfy society’s C-cup criterion
and men’s double-D standard

They say size and shape don’t matter
Yet spend millions a year
on big tits and tight butts

And I bought the measuring tape
if not the magazines
Kept my B-for-embarrassed shapes overlooked

and loosely swathed behind the lie of modesty
Until a breast biopsy issued
a mutilation memorandum

The severed milk ducts scripting
atypical cell analysis
across paper-thin samples of flesh

that authored guilt for bygone disregard
For which I compensate
with comfort, cuddles, confessions

Christen the recipients like precious pets
now named Boo-Boo and Bambette
I take them public

Proud in tight lycra tops
of their identical twin-ness
Before they turn fraternal

The harbinger lump I’ll perhaps find
When long piano player fingers
perform their monthly preludes