My Workout Routine
by Bob Hicok
When I hold up my arms and spin
fast as I can, thinking
I could write “birdsong“
on a pair of your panties
and bury them in a tin
in Central Park, where decades
from now, a child with a shovel
will find them and listen
when she’s supposed to be sleeping,
I get dizzy in the most
particular way. A way
that has panties in it and a child
who thinks there’s a secret
waiting for her and asks
for a silver shovel
with a yellow handle,
and there it is
one Christmas, looking up at her
with its single tooth
from a box surrounded
by a collar of torn paper,
and she goes out and puts
soft holes in the Earth.
I hold up my arms and spin
often, twice sometimes
in one day, if you’re wondering
where all your panties
have gone or why I think
you are beautiful.
