This is written for my late husband.
THE GIRL IN THE STANDING PANTS
His eyelids were leaden
His body wracked by weariness
He had too long been here
Nature whence he came was summoning him
The woman beside his bed faded
Gray hair and wrinkled skin morphed into youth
His brow furrowed
His lips spread recalling the first time he saw her
He the new shy student
She seemingly secure in her too tight pants
Both were standing
She amid her group
He at the edges
Urged to sit he shrank back with mumbled refusal
She without a hint of self consciousness
"I can't. I'm wearing my standing pants."
He knew then; he knew now
He wanted the girl in the standing pants
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