Someone Has My Sweatpants

Someone has my sweatpants 

(and it’s obviously not me)

Those many tracking e-mails

turned out to be a work of fiction

serialized over several days

And the “packaged received”

confirmation at the end was like

a drawstring strangling the truth.

My wife has tried to comfort me,

not just the way the sweatpants’ 

scrunched bottoms would have

hugged my jilted ankles,

but by texting the post office,

which can only confirm the vendor

sent it to the wrong address,

somewhere on this very street,

received by a person whose morals

are apparently as elastic as

the waistband of my joggers and

who refuses to do the right thing,

assuming I’ll never notice them

walking past the house in 

medium-sized men’s maroon

sweatpants, whose failure to arrive

means my legs now slide into denim

and khaki as though they had 

made reservations for a Swedish

massage but wound up getting pulverized 

by a Shiatsu specialist instead.

So now on my daily stroll

I keep vigilant, a sense of outrage 

and righteousness blending like

polyester and cotton, certain that only 

once I spot the culprit and yank 

what’s mine right off their lower limbs

that I will at last be able to relax,

lounging in the baggy sense of 

justice that someone fleeced.

Shane Schick is a poet, founder of 360Magazine, content marketer, and DadX3.

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