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.