Left Behind

One wonders why there is a pair of boxer shorts politely hung from the black wrought-iron fence in front of the apartment building at my bus stop. But there they are, in the humid morning sun, half turned inside-out, as if hurriedly discarded, yet draped calmly over the spikes. Light blue they are, with a cheerful pattern of clouds or sheep or something soft-looking. Perhaps they are being returned to an occupant of the building, the borrower having forgotten the correct apartment number. They are flannel by the look of it, cozy, and far too warm for a day like today. Perhaps they were abandoned for some relief from the heat. Maybe this really is evidence of the Rapture. They appear to be about a size 34 or so. No one seems to notice them, or if they do, no one seems to be bothered. No one wants to appear to be bothered. In any case, no one wants to fold them up and take them home.


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the untallied hours

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