I never felt the need to make a song
And dance about them, as you would a thong
They were just there. No frills and fancy frippery
No brazen silk seductive, smooth and slippery
No floral prints, cute logos, bits of tulle
Just cotton, somehow cosy, somehow cool.

Washday would come, I’d hang them on the line
Embarrassed by their workmanlike design
Among the other, flimsier, netherwear
They’d waft discreet; you’d hardly see them there
And we both knew, my underthings and I
That they were pants on which I could rely
I’d fold them, smooth them, tuck them in their drawer
The front row, like a thousand times before
While silky sulking, huddled at the back
Impulse buys in purple, red and black.

I knew deep down that there would come a day
For reason, cold and sensible to say
“They’ve had it. They’re worn out, elastic spent.
They’re disreputable. Time they went.”

Faded fighters, somehow, they soldiered on
Thumbholes each side, elastic nearly gone
I loved those pants with passion and profundity
Secure in my custodians of rotundity
Desperate, I dyed them, hoping to delay
Decomposition that came anyway.

Today with grieving heart the Rubicon
Was crossed. I’m here. My favourite pants are gone
But not too far. A sort of immortality
Conferred upon them by extreme frugality
In the midst of death they are in life! My plants
Are tied with my beloved underpants
Each strip of cotton tied with gentle fingers
Nestling amidst green life, their presence lingers
Somehow recycling mollifies the grief
I smile at blooms with bloomers, leaves with briefs.