Pink Underwear Will Always be the Downfall of Man she sits on the curb, her arms hugged around her knees, and she tells me that she’s met someone else. the buttery incandescence of the streetlight and the soothing cool of a full April moon compete to be the sole illuminator of her hair and rounded back. she tells me the guy’s name and that it’s over between us. but the only thing i can think of, pacing the sidewalk behind her, is how i can see her pink underwear down the back of her pants, and how i’m going to miss taking them off. Poem by Justin Barrett