Leisure Wear (or, Wendell Berry Breaks In All My Pants)

I

It's someone else's job to break
in all my pants --
some farmer or fashion model,
who's hard at work someplace,
living the active life I guess
I don't have time for, anymore--I get
soft slacks, sensitively sewn, to cover
the shame of my naked, useless legs,
and fulfill the promise of a technological age,
while projecting an air
of good times and hard wear.

I dreamed it could be Wendell Berry,
whom I'm certain never buys
stone-washed, must despise
the option of pre-softened jeans,
and works the rows in brand new
clothes, chafing to preserve
something of the old ways,
for the children, of the earth
and honest work, in these last days.


II

Out here, under old-denim skies,
in the worn-khaki fields of mankind's
primal dream, here, hand-shined
iron still sharpens iron,
and cotton ... only turns its will
to time, for Adam to remind:
when dearth has no part of fear
then leisure is no kind of wear.