Trousers

I’m listening to you cry

In the other room, separated

By a thin door not all the way shut - pushed

To the limit in its shrunken

Frame, I sit still, in the quiet,

Picking loose skin from my fingers;

Your mother breaks into the silence with scissors,

Making a dress for your God sister,

And she says there’s a little extra

Fabric for you some trousers,

For you to wear, left, right, to put on one leg at a time,

Just like the rest of us men, nothing special at all,

Nothing to fuss about