Round

They prattle incessantly about the shape
of the waitress' breasts, place bets
about their realness or falseness;
one of them says that it doesn't matter,
look at them, they're perfect: two beautiful
globes beneath a short grey T-shirt,
rounding out where every woman
wishes she did. And I can't think
of anything but that hard black nugget
that was plucked from my sister's pink flesh,
invisible to the eyes dragged over her,
so perfect and round
in the soft clicking light of an MRI.