Fat Pants

Yesterday I bought new pants,
two sizes smaller than the ones
I've laundered, folded, and stuffed
into a bag for the Methodists.

The woman who wore those pants
was me, perhaps a little more
of me, but also less like me
and more like a mutant camel,
packed by anxiety
for a mapless sojourn
into lands from which no camel
had returned,
fattened by worry
for a desert crossing,
dry monotony over endless,
undulating dunes.

Now that my caravan
has come to rest
along this sunlit shore,
I can close the bag
and drop it in the bin
with hopes for some other camel
on the other side
of these sands.