Lopsided Breasts

A deconstruction of awkwardness.

I am on a swing and I am looking very hard
at a perfume advert held in a glowing 
glass rectangle, a blister on the side
of a bus shelter.

A woman with facial skin
like a laundered shirt is trying
to seduce me into reaching out
for the glass globe in her hand.
An interesting colour, like the wrapper
of expensive chocolate, gleams on the fat flank
of this globe
and in the woman's lower lip.

I am swinging as high as the chains
will allow, holding a staring contest
with this well-pressed lady;
the evening is dusty and humid,
my linen shorts tight on my dimpled thighs.
I am the unsexiest thing in the world -
fourteen, mouth rigged up like a theatre,
eyes squashed by glasses. I am wishing
my left breast would catch up with the right.
I want to be as preciously held
as the woman with the perfume.