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Jeans

Someone took the jeans right out of my dryer
on the side of the house on a cold Christmas eve.

Perhaps he was a laborer
and the rains had closed his fields

of income and his last jeans had accumulated water
and rancidity under the Bean Creek Bridge

until he couldn’t stand the stink
and chose the closest Downy whiff

to check for newer wear, and hey,
the jeans were there, they were warm

and soft and his legs were cold,
he hadn’t had anything soft to touch

since October, so he just peeked.
One leg of the jeans came out

as if inviting him, longing for him,
the way a dog reaches out one paw

so that you can shake it and start
the petting that satisfies you both.

I have imagined those jeans on his legs
under the bridge in winter and then in spring

back in the fields by Watsonville
weeding the strawberries or culling

apple trees, going to market,
walking all over south county.

I imagine him working,
the happy chafing and trail-dog loyalty

in new landscapes those jeans provide,
envying the eager wag and wander.



Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife and a July abundance of plums. He has work in The Cortland Review, Verse-Virtual, Indiana Voice, Wayfarer, and Agave. He won the 2011 SuRaa short fiction award.