wash it from her cleavage

it wasn’t the ocre velvet,
how that blouse made of
skin-tones, even in dust, showed
her huge bust Or how,
fed and juicy, half-stuffed,
still she was a beauty. Not those
words the lover belted her with
like cock-slapping barrage. She
knew there would always be
another, and if anyone
could get what she wants
she knows she is the one--with 
those two big zeppelins 
popping out. If she survived 
the war in her head 
she knows she can survive 
anything from this box 
of syrup.
Sure, the scent of his juice
haunted, she could
not wash it from her cleavage. 
But she’ll be damned if
she let the what-have-beens
braid into her.