I’ve got this bit

under my armpit.

At the front it’s definitely boob but as it continues to the side

the glide

turns to a tide

of fat.

Yeah that.


That bit.


Much maligned I must say

as just a bump

a lump

a curve in –some would say—

the wrong place.

A spare tyre

a slump

and when down in that particular dump

something I myself have wished away.


The bit

Don’t fit

the subscribed shape of hot

But it fits perfectly –does it not—

in the caring hand of a cuddle lover,

a sofa snuggler, a bra taker off-er.

As I’m enfolded,


and scooped into fond embrace.

That flesh kneaded

Turning me into a need filled knot.


Just a bit to stroke so tenderly,

squeeze so caringly,

entrap so casually.


That bit


not thought about

not sought out

but without a doubt

caressed with love.


That bit.

Yeah, I love that bit.