These Pants
Have no belt loops, elastic at the waist,
Or buttons for suspenders duly placed
In front and back, or holes cut out at slants
Made for a rope like those for hanging plants.
I'm worried I'll be laughed at and disgraced,
Because my underwear, though I've been chaste,
Is red, the very colour of fire ants.
No, I can't change that. All my underwear
Is flame red, bright red utterly unmixed.
I don't like muted colours, lost betwixt
Hope and desire, as if one didn't care.
I race the sun, I challenge death, I dare!
Inspector, please just get these trousers fixed.