Athletic gods, they push and shove and
muscle each other, shoulder to shoulder
while flaunting their biceps then pivot and
rotate, dart and circle, their steps
on the glossy floor a dazzling Nike mosaic.
But between them (torsos and feet)
—can this be?—bags called shorts
that drape staunch butts, cloak fence-post thighs
and shield from view marvels of human knees.
This way, that, swirling, feinting, these hunks,
these bulked up pillars.
So why are they in bloomers, Ellis Island
essentials their women ancestors loathed?
Down the floor they go, break-out action!
Hold your breath: Will the sly guy thief,
who pilfered the ball, get to the basket before
his flag-like bottoms slide to his ankles,
causing a nose-squish slalom?
Here’s a quick reversal, up-court,
slam-dunk time! Wow! But after this high
suspension, as the dunker descends to earth,
air trapped beneath him flap-flaps his
windsock drawers, as it escapes.
Are you watching, listening, Ralph Lauren,
Ferragamo, Anna Wintour, Tom Ford?
Bewildered fans in need of help.
Desperately seeking a fashion intervention.
© by Richard Swanson.
Used with the author’s permission.