Some girl’s panties still
under a chair in the room
they rented me. She doesn’t
need them, you assume,
if they’re still here.
And they are. She’s not
a big girl, and likely
not a virgin either,
flung off as they were
and forgotten. I think
of her, commando now
in this small town
hours from the nearest
paved road, summertime,
but cool in the way
of far north Canada.
She won’t be chafing down
there as she walks and
fights mosquitoes, which
are everywhere. And
the flies, desperate
and vicious, after
every speck of moisture.
I think of her delight
last night, the small noise
she made in the final
shuddering of their
moment. Someone must
have knocked on the door,
to make her forget them.
Someone must have rushed
her into her clothes.
I don’t know. I have
so little to go on,
only this, her panties
left under that chair.
