the christmas party

why are you always
looking at my bosoms
your office mate judy says
to you at the company
christmas party.
you shake your head
and point at yourself,
spilling eggnog
from your plastic
tumbler onto your red
sweater, what? me?
huh, what are you
talking about?
whenever we have a
conversation, your eyes
are staring directly
at my chest. you do
it all the time. all
the men in the office
do it too.
she adjusts
her dress so as to
hide her cleavage.
she's enormous
and it looks like
two large white
balloons trying to bust
out of her skin tight
black dress. it looks like
at any moment she could
go airborne.
i wasn't looking at
them, honest, you tell
her. i don't even like
breasts. i hate them.
i have this crik
in my neck and sometimes
i feel more comfortable
when i lean my head
down, like this. you
look downward to the floor
to demonstrate. like that,
you say. pffft, she says,
men! you men have a one
track mind. not true,
you plead, not true,
she shakes her head,
turning to go across
the room. you take a sip
of your drink
and watch her as she
slowly sashays away
in her red high heels.