(or jackpot for the patriarchal privates)
At arm’s length often with phantom peg
on my nose, I’ve handled my husband’s
boxer shorts a million times.
God knows. Off the floor. Into hamper.
Out of the washing machine
To keep them sweet-smelling and clean.
I have hung out with the aforementioned garment
In the wee small hours of a moonlit night,
In the rushed early morning of stark daylight.
I become one with the shorts
hang myself on the washline to dry
almost an affair to remember
the three of us
man, wife, and boxer shorts
washing machine is witness
These threadbare, shrunken boxers
that offer little scrotal-sac support
on those low-hang days.
As if hubbie is too old
to free-ball, go commando,
brave an uplifting chill in birthday suit
As I now fold and bury shorts
At the bottom of his undie pile
So I feel I’m a little like his boxer shorts
Appreciated on the inside
Not for the world to see
Minder of crown jewellery
Signs of wear and age apparent,
But still treasured, a sort of keepsake,
Easily replaced but not.
Just as if I were to donate the boxers to charity
Or demote them to a cleaning rag,
The normally sensible fellow, I imagine
might miss me too if I went awol,
and weren’t in his drawers.
I presented him with our expensive entourage of walking, talking lookalikes.
Many moons ago, for his birthday, they presented him with the boxer shorts.
Now offspring too , wish they’d presented him with at least a dozen pairs.
Because, as the children have grown up, Dad has grown out.
And on at least one occasion, this has been glaringly obvious, except to Grandma who is a little short-sighted.
I’m still trying to forget the one time, the man was sitting on the sofa. I could clearly see the boxers had shrunk too, and BOO.
A cushion was quickly thrown at him interrupting his viewing of State of Origin football on telly.
© Kathryn Yuen July 1, 2012