the state of a woman’s love life
by the condition of her underwear.
Twenty ivory briefs
flapping in the wind,
not a lavender, pink,
or naughty black
in the whole sensible lot.
Four beige half slips like
neutral guards in a row.
No touch of scarlet or
little pink rosettes,
just clean drawers hanging
on a gray metal clothes line.
Oh, Mama, how did you ever learn so much?
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