My Boxers...

...lie perfectly content under khakis,
but under jeans, not so much.

They make it easy to pee and
I even remember a girl friend
pulling them down with glee.

Now I pull them down
I see a pudge of flesh
from 21 years
of sitting behind a desk.

Dropping them over a right knee
there's still a gash
left over from a Yamaha 600
motorcycle crash.

Freckles on my thighs
never let me lie
that some of my hidden hairs
are red.

Tartan patch boxers
stolen by a one night stand.
Quid pro quo?
I don't think so.

A sister-in-law announced
over Xmas dinner
I'd spend my last $50
on a pair of green silk boxers.

Maybe, they've been with me
since the army deemed
they fit me
but I'd add
a red Olde English
monogram.

If it's all the same
to those who bury me
I would only ask
you prepare me
in Logsdail itchy wool boxers.

An eternity
I swear...
Must come
with some debonair
and I hope someone in Heaven
will scratch me.