Butts walk through the city-
big,skinny,round,flat.
They sway,shuffle,
rest on chairs,
sometimes spill out of jeans
or vanish inside them.

Big butts carry stories,
of dancing,of days,
of women who say:
"Here I am".
Skinny butts slide
along the edge of seats,
unnoticed,
but no less real.

Why do we measure worth
in flesh or the lack of it?
Why do we stare,
comparing,desiring,judging?

A butt is a butt,
and also so much more:
a rhythm,
a place to pause,
a pride or a burden-
depending on who looks,
or who bears it.

So let us bow,
not to shape,
but to the existence.