There will be no bra today. No mandated lift for aging orbs inching toward my navel, obeying gravity. No binding my endowed Ubangi bosom, nor cinching its undercarriage. I, keeper of the house, will be free of the garment that keeps my upper torso a daycare prisoner. If music leads to frolic (and it will), I will put down my broom and support my ladies in the cups of my hands. Then, we shall dance.
Micki R. Pettit
9/9/2022
