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
dangling
 
from stitches
at just the fly and tag,
 
unwearable
but damp with sweat,
 
still warm, as if
his teammate
 
had yanked them apart
in some raucous
 
ecstasy—
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,
 
searching
for just what I found:
 
something to hide
my face in,
 
to inhale, imagining
what I imagined
 
I shouldn’t.
 

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