Donkey Pants

The seat of my pants brays
at the wrong moments. When
I’m cuddling up to my lover
on the couch, it hee-haws,
reminding her of my asshole
nature, fumigating love and
affection with poison sprays
of hoots. At school teachers
force me to remove my droopy
“donkeys” before they’ll
begin their lessons, fearing a
barnyard chorus when they
talk about solemn subjects,
Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech
or the horrors of Auschwitz.
Even when I visit mom she
holds out tight Speedos I
must wear, rather than assault
her eardrums with derisive
laughter. It echoes from my
seams, the threads of my
existence, when she tells me
she loves me and I can’t believe.