Pants

Let's take off our pants
And stop being vulgar.
I am tired of obscene
Denim.
Dockers alarm me.
Corduroy reminds me
Of meetings I wish I
Had missed.
 
Pants make us mean,
Make us strict,
Make us righteous.
They pinch and prod
And preach.
 
They never whisper,
nor insinuate,
And they refuse to
Proclaim the
millennial truth.
 
Pants lay at the foot
Of the bed whining
All night,
Like a misused dog.
 
They grumble from the drier
Like an old man,
Feeling put-upon and
Inadequate.
 
They plot with socks,
And belts, and ties.
Dream of doing away
With the fleshy animals
They cover, of one day
Calling the shots,
Of strolling about town,
Vacuous, vapid, and hollow.
 
Treacherous garments!
Pockets too small to
Carry what we really need:
     easy handouts,
     tasty sandwiches,
     enough change to catch
     the bus.
 
Let's take off our pants
And stop being bullies,
Stop the swaggering
Boast.
It is time to expose
The robust geography
Of the Soul,
To chase through the
Delightful hills of fat,
Down pristine valleys
Of muscle,
Play hide and seek
Amongst the toes.
 
Time to be tickled.
Time to be seduced,
By shadows, by lonely
windows letting in the
Evening, by fragrant
Melancholy, redeemed
at last.
 
We have become accustomed
To the disgrace of covered
Crotches.
We have grown to love the
Uniform of the Asphalt Army.
We have settled for a stranger's
Name stitched across our asses.
 
Don't you see the angelic
Messengers, walking the
Alleys, ready to reveal?
 
They are looking for naked refugees.
But all they find are important, hasty
Pants, carrying some sad meat burden
From where they belong, to the downtown
Slaughterhouse, without one glance
Over the shoulder, without one wave
Goodbye.