I want
telepathic and telekinetic trousers now,
I want
trews that can think,
I want
strides that don’t shrink
Away from
the intellectual effort
Of obeying
my unspoken commands,
And that
climb up my legs smoothly and coolly.
Without any
word from my mouth
Or tug from
my hands
I want
legwear that’s always there
When I want
it
And never
there when I don’t.
As a youth
I never thought of trousers
In terms of
on and off,
But age and
arthritis have changed the nature
Of the leg
cladding game
Getting
dressed and undressed
Is now a
ruthless fifteen round wrestling match,
As I curse
and swear, and sometimes tear
At those obstinate
tubes of cloth.
My feet get
stuck inside them,
My knees go
crick and crack
I clutch at
the wall
In case I
fall
Like a
tortoise onto my back.
But
tortoises don’t wear trousers
They have
more sense than aged old apes
They go
around nude,
As perhaps
I should,
Or wear a
skirt, a kilt or a cape.
Instead of
fighting my trousers
In a daily
attritional war
Which I
can’t win and neither can they
Until we
both exist no more
I’ll be
cremated in my trousers
Together
flesh, bone and cloth will burn
Until
trousers and I can both rest in peace
In a
tasteful funerary urn.
