I had a washer and dryer—
I was married—
I had—I have!—the best of daughters
and a dog and a lawnmower
that I keep in my garage—
But now when I fart
I think about my underwear
at the laundromat—
I know she'll be there,
the one I should have married,
who might have loved me,
and the only thing she'll see
is shit stains at the crotch!
Maybe I should wear brown underwear,
but you can only get bikinis I'd have to lose weight,
or stop eating onions—no, not that—
I can't give up beer either—
I'll sing


"Everyone in the laundromat is equal!"


and point out where her tampon leaked—
Think she'll know I mean that we both
live in real bodies that sometimes stink
and sometimes make messes, that I
am not afraid of her body, that I'd rather smell
her sweat in my bed than sandalwood and roses—
Think it'll get me kissed?


(with thanks to The Roches)


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