• Skirts whisp against the ground with the weight of carried children,
    While pants stroll into the pews, relaxed fit no restraint.
    The man speaks, we bow our heads,
    Their eyes are closed but mine stay open.
    As they close their eyes to thank Him,
    Mine stare at the frays in my skirt thats too short to touch the floor.
    They mumble words of praise, a ghostly chorus,
    My lips do not move, just chew gum anxiously.
    Skirts sway to classes, mine remaining still,
    While pants stay in the pews, to hear their lessons.
    The longest skirt of them all praises Him,
    Touching the ground, it cries out we must cover the Earth!
    In the next room the pants are laughing,
    Their goal is to sit in comfy chairs, then drop their flys.
    The skirts nine months of pain and joy,
    Is matched with 180 days of work.
    The skirts are content with their mission,
    Yet mine continues to tear.
    The next Sunday there is no whisping of skirts,
    And the pants for once, are wrinkled with discomfort.
    My heels click through the metal door frame,
    Bellbottom seams brush soft skin. The era of heels and pants begin.