The underpants memorial broke ground today.
Eastern European irony told of long shadows at the mill.
Not even the paper could explain why they dug through so much snow.
We stood there with no pants listening to the flugelhorn.
I’m in love with you, I whispered to a cotton shovel.
In my haste I forgot to shave that morning.
The fires at the sewage treatment plant raged for days.
If the clouds are an envelope, the sun is a first class stamp.
This is an island in the slipstream of comfort.
In the dark area chafed in your thigh, I saw the face of truth.
She was ugly like a turtlehead poking through algae.
I cut the ribbon with shears that had previously cut an umbilical cord.
I need more brains, I said wandering from the cemetery.
Underpants make up a small part of everyone’s day.
Why not erect a little something to remind us to change?
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