Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman
Of course, she is grossly out of proportion.
A woman only fifty feet tall would not be able
to straddle a four-lane highway, hold a Desoto
in one hand as though it were a burrito.
And that car is twice the size of the others strewn
before her. I mention this, because I do think that
size matters — certainly in the instance of this beauty
in her skimpy skirt and top made of bed linens.
For a male growing up in the fifties and sixties,
a redhead with breasts the size of weather balloons
is pretty much the Goddess incarnate. I would
gladly be one of her subjects; I even know which one.
Of the five people between her well tanned legs,
four run for their lives. But the one near her left calf
dashes toward the center of that highway, headed
for the spot where he can contemplate the abyss.
And though he is tiny, less than the size of her thumb,
he has gumption, a can-do spirit, and a stiff spine.
He will rise to the occasion. The others may flee in terror,
but he means to stand tall; he intends to fulfill.
Roderick Bates has published poems in The Dark Horse, Stillwater Review, Naugatuck River Review, Hobo Camp Review, and Rat’s Ass Review (which he now edits). He also writes prose, and won an award from the International Regional Magazines Association for an essay published in Vermont Life. He is a Vermonter and a Dartmouth graduate.
The Ekphrastic Review
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