My husband is a wandering hayseed planting

suspenders like apple trees, because when men get to

be a certain age

they lose definition in their midsections:

no hips, no rump, plump underbelly, and they wear

trousers that plummet down unexpected.

Poor hobblies struggle to the mailbox every morning

desperately clutching their waistbands waiting for their

pants to sink like wavelets circling white hairy ankles.

When my husband hears someone complain about droopy drawers

he exclaims, what you need are suspenders,

and he detaches his own and hands them over. The fellow

puts them on, clipping the ends smartly to his belt,

rolls both shoulders till the straps are comfortable, sighs with

relief secure from embarrassment and

gratefully struts like a smugful peacock,

insular and svelte.