There is underwear I love
and underwear I hate
and you
ratty lime green pair of boxers
you are in the latter category.

I don’t even wear boxers.
There’s not enough support
to them
but you,
with your long-gone elastic
expanded out of proportion
on your ages-old waistband,
you just inch down my legs
until I’m carrying a load in my pants.
A load of you
you rotten ratty drawers.
Just get out of my drawer!

The holes in your crotch
– or on my crotch –
doesn’t matter too much
but it means you don’t even look good
if I take you off
and the multiple stains
on your hi-yellowish green
just refused to be removed.

Why are you still around, shorts?
What has kept me from abandoning you
as you abandoned good sense and fashion
so many years past?
It’s not like I’m cheap.
Well
I’m not that cheap.
It can’t be
because of the action we got
with Sarah
could it?
That was decades ago!

It doesn’t matter.
I don’t care anymore.
I can’t bear you anywhere near me.
I am tossing you
I swear
right after the next washing.