Cargo Pants

“I’m a people watcher,” he said, “and I watch you telling stories. But, none are of your childhood.” He doesn’t know of the cargo pants, of the thirteen pockets.

“Some things are better left behind,” I said. Left buried deep within a closet.

They were pants for a boy

Detested by my parents

Too militaristic

Too baggy

Too grungy

Ugly

Ugly

Ugly

I adored them

Hanging around my scrappy legs

Legs for recess games

And climbing too high into trees

Legs that loved to run

And hide

They felt free inside

The pants not meant for me

Starry with pockets

I counted thirteen

Endless places to keep treasured stones

Chestnuts

Pine cones

Crushed Flowers

And pieces of myself

Why is that cute little girl

In such hideous pants?

Sweetie, don’t you want to wear a pretty dress?

Legs exposed then

Vulnerable to my own hateful eyes

Unseemly pants concealed my own

Ugly

Ugly

Ugly

A daily costume of boyhood

Grass-stained and liberated

Everyone was fooled

Sometimes

Even me

Yes, keep them far away. I can’t be tempted. “There is nothing to tell anyway.”