There comes a moment,

That arrives with no discernible warning,

When you are offered your eighth seat of the day,

That you can neither accept nor rudely rebuff,

Without a tacit agreement of some unspoken concept,

You don’t fully understand,

From a series of smiling figures,

Of roughly the same age, well in advance of your own, 

And perceived gender,

Despite the lack of signs,

Of any visible injury, infirmity or confirmed gestational status.

It is not at this point that you become “Woman”,

This may well have occurred well before or is still yet to come,

But instead, it is when the general consensus has been made,

By the Public with a capital “P”,

That you are,

No longer able to stand from the weight of your womanhood,

And must be seated from now on.