They might as well be
relics from the Middle Ages,
Shrouds of Turin paraded through the Vatican,
or Fremont Street.
in the knee
you can barely read the
words on the right rear pocket:
Original, Riveted, Quality Clothing.
riveted to a winding trail in the Smokies,
the mule ride through Canyon layers
of Toroweap and Coconino,
the spill you took in the muddy Colorado.
You even wore them to church one day.
Like your teddy bear, your first slinky,
those faded love letters,
you won't let go that shredded pair,
patched in the fanny,
but hold on 'til the last thread
cased in copper
worn from the neck,
a Saint Christopher's medal
seeing you safely through the next pair,
and the next.