My deodorant boasts
“all day protection”
but it can’t halt a bullet,
take my side
in any ireful arguments,
or commute a parachute
if I’m forced to skydive
from a defective plane.
At that point,
sweaty armpits
would be the least of my concerns,
though it might also be
the singular occasion
wet-stained underarms
on a lemon yellow shirt
against a backdrop
of sky blue sky
prove aesthetically pleasing
for most of the plunge
from cruising altitude
to terrestrial death.