Ripped Jeans
Poetry
A high-end store
Sliding glass door
Bright spotlights, shiny marble tiles
Hanging and folded in neat piles
Along the aisles
Are jeans in every style-
Flair, boot-cut, skinny
Straight, boyfriend, cropped and baggy
Black, grey, white, peach, sap green shade
And blue- once, an identifier of a man’s trade!
“It’s the jean festival,” the salesgirl beams
“This here is a hot-seller,” her eye gleams
Pointing to a pair with a gaping hole
That costs the price of many whole
“Distressed!” she says, “This one, Maam.”
“Oh! That I most certainly am!”
I say, looking at the price tag
For something that looks like a rag
‘No way I’ll pay for something that’s torn-
That looks dilapidated and worn!’
“Ripped jeans- they’re all the rage,” she says, trying to explain
But it’s all in vain
My mind is shut; I pick one out of the lot- threadbare!
At the knee, I can’t help but stare.
There’s another that’s shredded at the thigh
I wonder why
Anyone would especially pay
For what the poor man wears every day!
Wouldn’t it be easier to wear a pair of shorts
Or perhaps Scotts?
“That one is is designer.”
She quips, not giving up, “It’s not made with the laser.
But hand-cut specifically.”
And I’m thinking ‘Really!
All I see is a glaring tear
Invented in the seventies to say, ‘We dare!’
Tell me what it stands for now though
So I’ll be convinced to part with my dough
Don’t get me wrong; I’m no conservative
I’m a liberal, not stuck up; but it’s imperative
I understand this fad.
Before I buy jeans that are sad!
‘Distressed Ma’am, Not sad,’ she says, pointing to the stack
As I pick up Mom jeans from the rack.
