Roa’s Laundry (2nd version)

“Roa, Konrad Lorenz’s raven, raided clotheslines to steal ladies’ underwear.” B. Heinrich, Mind of the Raven.

First, I want to say that it was never my fault.

I should have been in the woods that day.

There had been talk of red-tailed hawks,

so I explored the yard next door.

My therapist, I’ll call her Dr. Z,

says it comes from a deep seated instinct

conditioned by learning from my keeper.

Sexual perversion? none

she calls it classical conditioning theory.

Same as Pavlov’s dog

except the dog salivated with a bell

Maybe a bit inconvenient with all the gadgets these days

But not as embarrassing as salivating at underwear.

Secondly, I need to point out

I was never attracted specifically to ladies’ underthings,

although the shiny materials did catch my eye

waving at me like little flags in the breeze

stray lace undulating in the sun

who could ignore the sheer sensuality

of the panties’ movement

calling to me with their siren song

Roa. Roa. Roa.

It could have easily been socks or string.

Proximity to lingerie aided this process.

I was never particular – Victoria’s Secret,

Hanes, JC Penney – no pretensions on designer fabric

Nor did I differentiate between bikini, brief, cotton,

silk, printed or plain

All made me salivate.

It’s the connection between food and underwear

that I cannot seem to shake.

There are days I don’t know if I can eat

without bringing Dr. Z a small present.

I sit on my perch

exploring my childhood memories,

reviewing the symbolism in my nightly reveries,

wandering into the depths of the Corvid mind,

Dr Z reassures me that we can re-condition my response.

Honestly, I don’t know if I want to change.

I do love the tasty reward --

some meat or eggs for a pair of silken panties,

a lace-edged slip, an occasional satin brassiere.

I love the dance of freedom

lifting lingerie from laundry lines.

Dr. Z tells me not to blame myself.

It could have happened to anyone.

Curiosity may have killed the cat,

but I know men who have been jailed for less

it isn’t necessarily the action

but the thought of action

that imprisons us.