It is a good thing,
women wearing pants.
To ride astride racing horses,
rather than aside,
perched as if you
don’t really belong.
Imagine Norma Jean,
an aged, confident
retired physicist,
that sidewalk grate
Wafting stale air
Up pants rather than pleats.
Wading through tall grass
amidst falling leaves,
lugged boots gathering mud,
my pants sweepIng away burrs
and scratches,
I am bolder because of
pants.
Pants wipe hands,
give camouflage in
flight,
and equalize even
nasty snowball fights.
Put on your big girl pants,
wander into the world
and be somebody to
reckon with.
Categories: Poetry