My father is sitting in the truck,
Bright red, a contrast to his sweatpants.
They are turquoise.
They call attention to us
Wherever we go.

They are well-worn, falling apart,
Their weakness reminds me of him.
Cheap, imperfect fabric
Covering his legs
That I will see less as I get older.

I distance myself from him,
His wife, my siblings,
From the bright blue sweatpants.

I want to be far from the poor,
Dingy life,
And the sweatpants - a size too big.

Embarrassed to be seen with him -
More when he had those on.
They yelled, "White trash.
Poverty.
West Haven."

My father, his sweatpants,
His crass demeanor,
Alcohol breath,
So distant.