Old Pair of Jeans

They were once as blue as
The sky, its deep hue as
Lazy oceans. Well-pressed,
Smells like factory, right
Fit to draw the curves, straights
And bulge of lanky bargain hunter.

Flexed by days and years, like
Mom’s mission to stretch Dad’s
Undersized pay.
Loosened buttons, wretched ends
And paled skin, these pair of
Jeans found its perfect home:
In the vein of underpaid contractual
Bagger on a cashier’s end.

While the passenger grows,
Horizontally, what can my now
Old pair of jeans but accept
The fact that he needs to
Understand me; be with me,
Grow with me, be patient
With me. Grow old
With me.