Thirty feet above the rooftop

of the notorious Shadow Club

hangs the underwear

of Mr. Lung, Apt. 3A


Gray and blue, but mostly white

postcards to the world

his laundry is a heroic gesture

in this just-above space

over the city


Boxers, briefs,


how we divided souls

share with each other

our unmentionables


Just as suddenly

as two nameless

naked arms grope

out the window to reel

it all back in


We show up

in your life

and bare all


Yet we will not open

our mouths to say

look, I long for your

folding touch


To stack you on my bed

and bury my face

in your clean rough washcloths

the redemption of your warm underpants


JD Frey--February 3, 1998

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