We had a storm last night and this morning
in the grass out front I found a black bra.
I don’t know if lightning struck a woman
and like a character in a cartoon
her clothes were blown off in a puff of smoke
leaving her to try to cover herself
with her hands while she ran inside somewhere.
When I checked the mail the bra was still there.
I don’t think its owner is coming back.
I’m afraid that black bra is a lost bra.
Or maybe it’s a bra that ran away.
Maybe during the storm the bra’s owner
was parked in the donut shop parking lot
necking with some guy who bought her donuts
and the bra said, “Donut sex is too much,
storm or no storm, I’m getting out of here.”
And then the bra unhooked itself, squeezed out
from in-between the two donut lovers
and escaped into the dark, stormy night.
The black bra didn’t get far, the lawn here
is about a mile from the donut shop.
But the bra did escape the donut sex.
A bra that escapes can look like it’s lost.
A bra running from donut sex teaches
the metaphysics of lost and escape.
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Orbis Non Sufficit And The Status Cow
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