YOU TOUCH, YOU BREAK, YOU BUY

The last time I was in Starbucks,
I saw a quite curvaceous woman.
Judging by the degree of her shapeliness,
The neighborhood of Dallas we were in,
And some other, lesser signs.
I guessed her shapeliness had been shaped
With some sort of professional, plasticene help.
I immediately thought of Colin Powell
And his famous “Pottery Barn rule”:
“You touch, you break, you buy.”
Touch those breasts and break — what?
As I write these words, I reflect on that.
Break, or brake, an illusion? A dream? A fantasy?
And whose? Hers? Mine? A generic male’s?
Perhaps all, simmering together in a stew
Of mutual self-deceit —
Her illusion of what the surgery does for her.
My illusion of what her breasts could do for me.
Male generality’s illusion about her attractiveness.
I get to the counter; the barista takes my order.
I steal a last sideways glance while awaiting my half-caf.
The usual. No illusions about Starbucks coffee.
Or about me being all that much less plasticene
Than two D-cups briefly seen while window shopping Silicone Barn.
What’s broken?