Underwear
like
bicycle bottom brackets
provide room for
movement, for rotation,
to leap to turn to pose,
to motion you over with my
pointer-finger, tonight.
Tonight, no one but
you knows their
maroon and black stripes,
or drop down curves
or classic geometry like
I know you and
your soft steps toward
me on this hard-wood floor
in your own petite
bottom brackets
reciprocating the motion of
our cranking legs or
our relaxing coasts.
We are not fixed, but
free in underwear.
And, unrelated to the poem, this wonderful piece of merchandise is an underwear rug!
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