I Haven’t Worn Pants Since 2001

Thanks to the womens’ bike designer, my skirt retains
its draped shape. My legs: bundled as a bunch, not wrapped
individually. Even my bathing suit has a skirt.

When I was a kid, I climbed the jungle gym in a dress.
Another kid: “Little Girl, I can see your underwear.”

I must monitor my underwear, the wind billows skirts.
I grip my skirtsides, put on two skirts to compensate. No matter
how many I put on, I still have the same problem.

My legs need a chaperon.

Men upgraded the mirrors on their shoes to tiny cameras.
An up-skirt pervert, Oliver Clothesoff,  tried to get my underwear
to sign a release to act in its own internet video.

I see posters of my underskirt around town. My underskirt
has a fan page on the internet.

I agree to swing dance so my underskirt can star
in its own musical–it twirls, and I join in. This time,
when it catches on air, we both float.

by Valerie Loveland

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