What kind of pants are we talking about?
Sweatpants? These which you slept in,
because even though it’s June, it was a little chilly last night?
How many days have you worn these now?
God, they’re comfortable. Cozy, but not too tight,
held up with a tie, not a fake leather belt
(reminder: you should buy a new belt, the one you have is starting to fall apart)
which chafes against your bony waist
(Gloriously skinny; you finally gained middle-aged weight, but your brief bout with Lyme took it off)
No I have no idea how many days in a row I’ve worn these.
(O Christ, one of these stream-of-consciousness poems? Are you kidding me?)
(but he still uses punctuation—what a nerd.)
Since I’ve been working remote, the days are a heavenly blur.
On Christmas day, 2019, imagine if someone had told me:
we’re sending you home, don’t worry about pants anymore, but yes, you’re keeping your job,
I would have crapped my pants—
the ones I no longer need to put on.