Breasts with long blue veins running through them, Saggy, past their prime, I sit in the mirror looking at my breasts,
Weak, ineffectual like me, And now redundant, Like me. They will follow me to the old people's home, Where my children have put me today. But now no longer swathed in constricting clothes They will breathe more freely with me. I want to paint them, With the sunset in the background, Because there is no tomorrow, No sunrise for both of us.
