I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance
Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.
Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.
I have stolen
that were in
the dressing room
you were probably
for a party
they were comfy
and so stylish
Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.
The patterns on your pants
Could make a designer cry;
But I hung on to your stance:
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.
Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.
What happens to lost pants?
Do they stiffen up
like paper as it dries?
Or do they balloon up —
and into the sky rise?
I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.