I seldom hesitate long enough to investigate underneath of things.
The underneath of my cars I would look at when I was a teenager,
to make sure nothing leaked oil or hung loose and dragged along
the city’s yellow lines.
The underneath of my bed is still where the dust fairies go to hide
when I get out the vacuum cleaner, and they can hear the rolling
wheels clawing at the fibers in the patterned carpet.
The inside of my baseball cap, which I wear frequently in this hot
part of the country to keep my thinning hair from burning, is a place
I never think very carefully to examine. I see no advantage and
so leave the few dome-shaped inches to their own private destiny.
The dark places below my house do not require my inspection
any more, now that all the rotten flooring has been replaced with new,
the old iron drain pipe now made instead from a thick, tough
Underneath of almost anything I know about it is the dimension
for which I have only vague concern. Oh, there are places that
come to mind that exist underneath important things that I tend
to leave alone, and I should be watching, but the longer I live
I find such pleasure in the smooth, bright, pretty surfaces.