By William Aarnes
The things one can discover
opening a garage door—
this Sunday morning
it’s that a variety of condoms
is sold as formal wear.
“Tuxedo,” the wrappers read,
“PREMIUM . . . BLACK . . . FLARED.”
Whoever scattered these
—there must be—dozens
of unwrapped condoms
over our yard and driveway
must have been drunk enough
with faith, hope and love
to believe whoever he was with
or without
might succumb
to such despairing zeal.
Copyright 2015 Aarnes