This bedroom is overcrowded
with brassieres. Some hang loosely
or gather on the chair. The bed post
is a convenient perch,
but most are too tired for such a climb.
They sprawl exhausted, too worn
for the drawer, yet
not quite hampered.
The drudgery of daily affairs
wears elastic.
A shoulder strap limp
without its lovely arm. Clasps,
impossible to reach, now open
to anyone wanting to fiddle with chrome.
One can barely calculate
the capacity of so many empty containers. Leisurely
these lacy undergarments laze upon the carpet
as though it were a beach.
I wonder if they don’t imagine themselves bikinis.
Cups pushed tightly by
what might have been
one’s revolutionary resolve. Or
removed to roam freely,
to dance their semi-separate life of twins.
Though she no longer burns those lacy yokes
designed by men, my moxie wife magically
unsnaps from her daily routine,
then flings that thing like
flippin’ a middle finger to the man.
Bob Putnam is a writer and carpenter living near Charlottesville, Va. where he is a member of the WriterHouse writing community. His recent work has appeared in Bare HandsEmergeSALT, and Epiphany Magazine.
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