Foiled In The Closet

quarantined alone
in a niche I used to hide
near the master bathroom
where we watched him shave
just yesterday, when Pops dies
I score rolls of Magnum Trojans
wrapped in his balled socks inside
a shoe box on an organizer’s top shelf
covered up by the diversionary remains of
hallmark neoprene groin braces, a cantilevered
one that fit enflamed joints snugly plus my fave,
the soiled middle finger splint spawned from plasticine
and a virginal hernia truss. Loins circling like a red-tailed hawk
ever since hubbub Dad pawned off too many birds ‘n bees books on me,
jeez this boy never lands what were rumored to be stashes of girlie mags, or what
Mother parroted as unambiguous evidence of Father’s adultery with Marilyn Monroe.