Best Leggings Poems
Leggings cuddle my thick thighs
Making me feel so contented
With the chubbiness I feel inside
When I go to try on my wardrobe
Leggings bring me to peace with myself
When I would be dishonored by jeans
They feel so soft and willing to bend
That I love them like I never could believe
Leggings caress my legs with their knits
Leaving me room to twist around and sit
Letting me know that I have the curves
To fill up my leggings with pure chubbiness
Leggings remind me just why I can feel
Assured that I still have a little sex appeal
They tighten around me just enough to reveal
The curve of my thighs and calves fascination
Leggings are the best part of my apparel
They leave me with a feeling of appreciation
Let me breathe freely and feel the open air
With a sense of self-expression alive for dancing
A store that only sells leggings.
What? How is this even possible?
In this economy? What would keep it in business?
Serious, this is as ridiculous as a store that only sells
Mickey Mouse stamp pads. Crazy!
The posters say the entire store costs ten dollars.
Is this the whole store, including the cash register?
Does this include the display pieces?
Are you buying the land? Or is this just the leggings
That cost ten dollars? One legging or all of the leggings?
I prance in to do my damage, because the guy is alone.
Tiny guy, large round glasses, looking at a cell phone.
Gee. I wonder why people do not feel welcome.
He glances at me briefly, figures I am not his market,
And starts playing Paint the Birds or Cotton Candy or something
Equally wise on his phone. Come on guy, turn down the volume!
Bing. Ping. Ding. Ping. Sing. Bring. Are you kidding me?
I try teasing him about the sign. He is clearly not amused.
Not delighted at conversation; a particularly dour shop boy.
Who obviously owns no piece of this place and is not paid on commission.
I could have stolen all the leggings, and he would not have noticed.
Even if he had noticed, I doubt he would have moved.
Reminded me of so many I see who have forgotten about real
People, living an I-phone life now, a fantasy I-phone life.
Out for a walk to get some air
Some folks dress up but most don’t care.
The jeans or leggings people wear
Are hardly worth a mention.
Fancy clothes out here are rare,
Deserve a glance but not a stare
For even those who do prepare
Don’t get that much attention.
I don’t think that I’m alone
In stating lately I am prone
To dress in ways I’d not condone
When following convention.
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
Pink leggings with a red shirt?
She said it in a mean way with her mouth curled up.
YES! I agreed, a happy smile on my face.
She tried saying it in a different mean way.
“Pink leggings with a RED SHIRT?”
“Of course,” I said, spinning around so she could see me better.
She tried again.
“Pink and red, red and pink!” I sang cheerfully.
I made a whole song about it.
Sang it proudly and loudly.
She left in the middle of verse six.