What can you see when I’m reaching for a taco?
Is my shirt too low cut or flimsy to hold my cleavage in?
Can you see my blushing hint of blatant revealing?

I wonder if you’re aware how much of my outfit is planned, how much of my display is controlled and
not happenstance, like a water wheel moves by choice location, and not the roaring brook nearby not touching it. 

I’m a craftswoman of display, as artisan as any painter
making work for a wealthy patron, 
but you’re my buyer, and I’m willing to sell low,
even free after this dinner.