No, they do no such bother.
In the right holsters, nothing
that dig at the ribs
like the arms of a first-time lover,
they are soft dough rising
on the counter for an hour
under a moist towel. They do
however get sticky in the heat
and yes, I know it is recommended
by Men’s Health
to hose them down
in a white t-shirt, preferrably
at a party or a car wash.
I do not have a car nor
go to parties, not lately.
Mostly, I’m in the kitchen
where sometimes, when all else
is in the hamper, I put on my only pair
with the slight squeeze and push
for some height from the sink
and stove with the heat and oil splatter.
I do, take care of them, I promise.
I have 2 aprons, one that wraps
around the waist like in Masterchef’s
and one with the hemming
in ruffles like the seaweed on Ariel.
She has nice breasts too, I would say,
but mine are quite healthy
given how hard they work
despite the bare minimum
maintainance they’re afforded.
They cleave to hold my keys,
some coins for the carollers, a pen,
like an extra hand especially lately
when the other two are always
either bowl-deep dry rubbing
chickens, or testing the hypo-allergenic
properties of soap. They carry
load, more quietly
than insoles on heels,
confidences more discretely
than lips hovering over coffee.
Hard at work little hills that keep my cigarette
dry until the end of the day
when I throw out the trash
and blow smoke circles upwind.