For months I had thought lost
my favorite pair of underwear
the baby blue Calvin Kleins
that framed my ass in all the right ways.
I wondered where I had taken them off
left them crumpled in a pile
and kicked to the wayside;
one more article
for the locker room lost and found
as I walked home commando.
I entertained the possibility
they’d been pilfered
from the community laundry
taken by someone in need of
the self-esteem boost only granted
by wearing a cute pair of underwear.
And if such was the case,
I was prepared to make of them an offering,
a gift of 91% nylon and 9% elastene,
because really, who wants a pair
of used underwear
except the perverted or the desperate?
Eventually I stopped looking,
became friends with the likes
of Andrew Christian and Diesel
and Evolve by 2xsist,
bought brands unrecognized
from that wondrous behemoth of online retail
where anything is possible and everything for sale.
Then one day I pulled a jacket down from the closet
and felt a bulge in the sleeve
like someone was happy to see me,
waiting to be saved from cotton confines
to fit again like a second skin
and rub against khaki or denim.
And there sat my baby blues
five inches of no-show trunks
captured in the dryer and hung with the rest
and me a fool with only tricks up my sleeve.
