plump

Her face, bobbing up and down in a crowd,
Sometimes suspended
amidst
a lilting sprinkling of other faces,
Is now a little plump.
Her soul too, has put on
extra flesh
through being thoroughly ravished
And standing fully ripe and satisfied
but like a court jester with
mirth leaking out of the eyes
and dripping through the mouth
Painted and ruthless mirth
She might swell up and up and up, paint and mirth and leakage and all.
And all the while
the picture
of her soul that has put on extra flesh and shimmers with unchallenged, mocking revelry,
bobs up and down in my head
And as the face slightly plump, too fair,
with mascara-ridden eyes
and packed snugly with other faces, peering through tiny eyes, swells up
with barely restrained Mirth
I think her almost vulgar
But then she might be kind,
She might feel pain or tears
or let sorrow sneak in through the backdoor
And perhaps I just dislike her
and
if it’s really so
Then
This poem is a Picasso portrait of her in my head
And a grossly inaccurate one at that.