When I was a teen, still absorbent,
My friend and I would gather,
Our coins and get a magazine.
We would sit on a bench – slatted, hard,
Or on a bank, littered with Mars wrappers,
The pages lying across our knees,
Glossy and exciting, promising
Lives we would never live.
Perfect bodies and laughing faces,
Set in time.
A feature, not physical, was keen on hygiene.
Always dry under your breasts it implored,
And later, I explored with my fingers,
That part of my body, and wondered,
Where water might linger beneath or between.
Now I know!