Thigh Friction

I pulled them from the closet shelf,

a heavy version of myself.

The waist is tight, the tan is deep,

a color that I meant to keep.

The ridges rub, a rhythmic sound,

the dog is spinning 'round and 'round.

He thinks a stranger’s in the hall,

but it’s just me against the wall.

The knees are flat and worn away,

from sitting through that Saturday.

A shiny patch of quiet grit,

where all my heavy memories sit.