A friend of mine owns dancing pants, his
tailor told him so.
I own a pair of refugee pants, no one
told me this, I'm just socially aware.
With no home and no ambition to find
one, I'm satisfied with their wanderings.
Dancing pants? Those are fine, if not practical.
What will they do for me?
Can they save me on the road, on the streets, on the benches, on the dirty trains, on the small tuk-tuks, on the cargo hold of a ship, on the dark forest floor of the sweating jungle?
My refugee pants are kept together and will not
lose their wits. Not under the foreign scorching sun. Not below the canopies and the stars.