Just like those flimsy gowns
that you shiver in at the doctor’s office,
dreading an inspection that will
prod your tongue or push your stomach;
just like the black button-up
folded in the corner of your closet,
worn once before a casket
and soaked with rain from that June morning,
my blue jeans –
shade of crayon labeled “cornflower,”
disintegrating piece of November sky –
hang hunched up around my waist,
crinkled all the way down
until they dangle three inches short.
Hard to tell, under the gray morning light
whether they’re too loose or short,
as I scrutinize myself in the full body mirror.
Eighteen today
already? I grimace, looking at these jeans.
It seems only yesterday
that I carelessly hopped into the shiny world
of kindergarten, and in a month I’ll be voting
for the next president of the United States.
Maybe I should wear a pink dress
or even a full-blown suit to celebrate,
for God’s sake. Not this strange denim.
But I flip those thoughts
out of the pockets in my brain.
As I turn toward the door to exit my bedroom,
I know my jeans are comfortable now,
if not tight and itchy, or largely ugly on me,
and I stride through the chilly autumn air
to the sweet scent of cake in the kitchen.