Searching for her boobie

Peaking past the ruffles, she's searching for what she doesn't quite have

and no amount of pattern or elastic will help. Instead, she uses those red

pumps, the Jackie O sunglasses, the knee-high schoolgirl socks to make up

for what she's missing. Then there is that look, asking if I stole her boobie

from her. She almost believes I did—such accusations of an innocent

audience! Now it's the boots tromping down the stone staircase; next page

are those legs, flagpoles really, in front of criss cross fencing. The skirts raise

higher and higher, pushing the limits of black and white decency, but still

no boobie. Aquamarine color washes away such decency and curves flirt from

under form fitting polka dot shorts. A jacket now covers up any shortcomings.

Ah, another suspect emerges on page 46. He seems shifty to both of us,

at once relying on adolescent boy look charms or hiding behind trying

too hard disheveled sprays of hair. I'm spared any more accusatory glares

from her. No doubt here who the guilty one is. It's all before us on the last

page. His “who me?” look isn't fooling anyone. She wants her boobie back.

2/6/10