Pandemic Pajama Pants Blues

my life’s as ragged now
as the bottom of the pajama pants
I’ve worn for 14 months
stepping through the hole in the hem
at least once a day and not caring
about who saw me when I was outside
puttering in my sad garden
among the bottom rot tomatoes
and struggling beans — y’know

I cut those pants down so
they would finally be out of the way
of my clumsy stepping
and they have been worn down
till they’ve become a feeling
a fabric no more
pants made of tears as
soft as my memory
of the many sorrows and far fewer joys
that swept around my ankles last year
tripping me up
throwing me down

it hardly seems right
to throw them away and go back
to jeans and khakis
but throw them away I did
for I have at least three more pairs
in reserve
waiting to be worn to tears
in case
it happens again
and if it does
if it does
I will not call myself ready
but