One sock, two sock,
Red sock, blue sock.
What the hell? That’s not a pair.
Shorts, shirts, pants and underwear.
After work on my neighbor’s Sabbath
Is my time to unwind and relax my mind.
I stretch and I fold,
I smooth and I sort,
I bring order to the bedlam.
The only thing…to interrupt me…
…an unruly yawn.
I think I could’ve been a jazz musician
If only I really wanted to.
But, there was that need to practice,
Which was something I found I could never do.
Yet here I sit, expertly arranging my shirts,
As I often do, with strange care and determination
Half-minded and unconscious, like a professional.
I am the Master of the Underwear,
An outfit origami artiste.
Everyone does this sort of thing,
Or, at least, I think they should.
Most of us are devoid of a maid,
Or a friend, or a lover, that can or would.
Just imagine–right now, throughout the world–
Hunks and hotties are kneading their knickers.
Nuns and politicians even do it,
Unlike the bees, who would if they could.
Now I must stop, for my wife is staring…
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