Gag gift from my nephew
you sat
untouched in your yellow tube
on my bathroom shelf.
That middle-aged cartoon baby
leered at me from your label
each morning when I swallowed
my pills.
You stirred my interest.
Twisting off your lid,
I smelled you.
Plain and comfortable.
Not floral. Not like babies.
Tentatively,
I squeezed you on my index fingertip,
noting your smoothness.
Could you, I wondered,
help with my right armpit?
I spread you there.
Every winter since,
you have prevented chafing,
reliable as the lowbrow nature
of my pubescent nephew’s humor.
Sing to me, good paste,
of a quieted anus,
blameless pits,
and constancy.
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