panties
she shifted on the train about two stops
away from where i was getting off
this woman in a tank top with a tan
her jet black hair pulled back
with sunglasses taking up the rest of her face
she shifted and her denim mini rose
and i almost saw them
her panties
so i put down my book and made like
i was looking out the window into the darkness
of the tunnel
but i kept stealing glances as if i were some
low-grade pervert
but i didn’t care
because one shift was all it took
and really there was no excuse for it
because i see dozens of panties per day
on dozens of women who can’t seem to dress
themselves correctly.
my wife has a drawer full of panties
but i needed to see her panties
although i couldn’t explain why
base curiosity?
stereotypical male necessity?
i wondered if they were red or blue
or white or sea green, stripped, had designs on them,
french-cut, high-cut, thongs, granny style
i thought about her panties more
than i’d ever put my mind to lowry or proust
then she shifted again
almost, almost, but no luck
i think she was wise to me
a thirty-five year old man covered in sweat
and gray hair
wearing the same clothing for three days
pretending to read a book on a new york train
she knew it and i knew it
and i knew i’d never see those panties
not in this lifetime
pink ones, ones with little hearts along the front
i’ll bet she changes her panties every day too
one leg at a time, just like the rest of them
but how in the hell would i ever know that?
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