Feeling It

Wedged between burgundy 
and royal blue nylon panties 
lay my husbandís sturdy white 
cotton Jockeys folded hastily 
by me, a Freudian slip, maybe, 
egging me to step into each 
roomy leg opening to feel 
what he feels, thick cloth, 
the secret pocketís handy 
practicality briefly erotic 
as I discover how quickly 
the exit facilitates entry, 
the might of his many Yís 
flexed. But not yet sexed 
enough, I searched the fridge 
for something to add weight
Ė a beet, a baby carrot,
a Polskie Ogorki pickle?

So freighted, I strutted 
in the kitchen clutching
my crotch, enrapt,
pickle juice stained, 
in no-manís land, 
his place.

© Susanne Fletcher