Green Pants

I washed my pants today.
I washed my green pants today.
I washed them clean by hand.
They’re a type of green that’s dark and thick
A royal green, deep like bright leaves in a tropical forest where
flares shafts of light, bright and intense through the gloom. Not watery
aqua or algae green, but green like jade, blazed and absorbent.
The green stitching are like sketched veins, a shade lighter.
It has the richness of foliage growing in humid soil.
Jungle green.
That’s it:
Jungle green. Earthy and lush. Moist from the washing with warm, hand-poured
waterfalls. A vibrant leaf-green that glosses in the gloom of the forest where
spearing shafts of light brightly probe and urge life within darkness.
A sensuous, steamy green. A plush green more plump than an erection.
The color of leaves that are rich under the canopy of a tropical jungle
Shading them.
A thick green drape; like smooth, yet itchy, heavy linen, warm as a blanket.
A cloth sheaf.
That’s it
A leafy cloth. A sheaf of green draping the dark forest of my loins.

I washed my pants today.
I washed my green pants today.
I washed them clean by hand.
They’re a type of green like leaves that gleam in a rain forest.
After it rains.
It’s cleaned of bird droppings and the insects and worms that try to eat
through them. The dark mossy green that you see covering rocks, protecting
them from erosion, by sudden, unpredictable winds and violent streams, or keeps
them rooted despite the thunder from lightning shafts striking the ground.
Grassy green.
That’s it:
Earth green. And even like the green beneath the ocean.
The solid green of plants growing on the sea floor you see through a mile
of water; shafts of wavering plants undulating below the surface, anchored
against the currents from the surface and rage of storms.
Seaweed green.
That’s it:
Seaweed green. Not the plant green exposed to the air, slowly suffocating in
an atmosphere filled with smoke and noise, and unpredictable, scorching winds.

I washed my pants today.
I washed my green pants today.
I washed them clean by hand.
I wrung them out this morning and hung the dripping, fading state-green
pants on my gate.
it looked like a vine with two thick tendrils hanging from the bars.
I went to breakfast and returned to find that they had crept away, “they were gone.”
Back in my cage, I saw them hanging a level beneath me on the window turn-bars.
Like a forest green snake that had poised draped, watching me like the breakfast
I had unknowingly under it to get to.
Snake green
That’s it:
Lizard green. Puke green as the prison guard who had peeled them from the
Steel branches of my gate and tossed them there. Green as the flare of anger
Of a trifling spite. A mulching green plowed under and over just to see the
Color of steam tinted by decomposing leaves.
That’s it:
Bile green. Dung green; like the greenish-whitish-blackish, dried bird
Droppings that are now on them.
Now, I have to wash them again.

I’ll wash my pants tonight.
I’ll wash my green pants tonight
I’ll wash them clean by hand.