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.