The Tattered Pants

Worn but not forgotten

There they are, The tattered jeans I couldn’t discard, My worn blue uniform Standing at attention, Seeming tall.

On the wooden hanger, The pants face me, Stiff legs crisp and ironed, Still neat and tidy From the last washing.

They stare at me, Hoping I will command them To cover me Once again,

But things have changed…

Now the pants won’t cooperate, The zipper stalling in the seams, And the waisted metal button Staring at me blankly With nothing to do.

As I try to cram my crippled body Into their hardened legs, I recalled the battles That I had fought When I was young,

The many holes In the pockets Showing me Where we’d been, And victories That were won.

I removed the jeans And gently folded them, Packing their history Into a plastic bag,

The memories of their journey Waning like the tide Returning to the sea.