The Boxers I Stole from an Open Locker in My High School Locker Room

They were light
blue, with little surfers
and Surf ’s Up! running
along the waistband,
which was ripped
from the fabric
at both hips, left
from stitches
at just the fly and tag,
but damp with sweat,
still warm, as if
his teammate
had yanked them apart
in some raucous
giving him shit
because he wore
boxers to practice
instead of a jock—
as he struggled
to keep them up
moments before
hitting the showers,
where they must’ve
scrubbed as I stalked
those echoless rows,
for just what I found:
something to hide
my face in,
to inhale, imagining
what I imagined
I shouldn’t.

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