Visible Panty Lines

Hello there crumpled panties, stripes of sexiness tossed aside. I see you here, discarded from the night before, and I wonder:

How did you find your way to a sidewalk downtown? 17th, just of K Street.

Was the night that good? That fun? That fast? And why are you still here, well past the dawn’s early light?

Are you now unloved, discarded like a Blackberry sled? Or are you just jealous of the love others had, without you?

Might a Hilton, a Simpson, or a Spears be looking for you now? A woman, commando.

Will you stay here long, situational sculpture on concrete? Who will disturb your rest? I sure will not.

A woman’s panties, striped or not, are not in my street scene.

This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs

Married, mortgaged, and soon to be a father, Wayan Vota is in the fast lane to mid-life respectability – until the day his brood finds his intimate journal of global traveling and curses him with the ever-eternal reply “I’m gonna be just like you, Dad!”

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