264 – Páramo


The underwear I washed by hand,
rinsed, wrung and wrung, hung
on a line among other fluttering pairs–
a united nations of undies–
stained, stretched, torn, less elastic
than once they were, disheveled
and well worn, of all sizes and shapes–
are gone.

Stolen, I hope, by some desperate commando
in need of girded loins, or blown
by the wind into the páramo,
a tinge of bright color caught up
in dead grasses, peeking out from under dust,
livening up the empty rolling brown
no-man’s land below.

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