By Roberta Curley
I bet Obama’s pajamas are the cat’s meow
mine make me look like a pregnant sow
the Former President is so neat and trim
he must sleep in silk robes which bear justice to him
my “lazing” gear is ancient and polyester
I’d only bare it if I were called to sequester
clothes make the man, my mama always said
if she could see me now in each tattered thread
pajamas remind me of donning old slippers
I exalt my PJs like waiters glorify tippers
my red jammies had been trusty for years
that dependence leading to angst and tears
I felt a breeze one night – cursed the burgeoning rip
even a president’s tailor couldn’t mend this blip
I adored my poly pajamas even more than I love hearsay
but their bottom seam was first to pop astray
I blame the pandemic for abetting a national pajama party,
for my conspicuous split – and my food frenzy so hearty!
What fun this poem is. Unlike PJs, a good laugh never goes out of style. Thanks Roberta!
A paen to pajamas that exalts a garment which gets no respect. And yet, on some days, snuggling in a pair of old jammies and munching on something forbidden was the only solace this last miserable year. Invoking our elegant Former President with his Fred Astaire grace was a perfect counterpoint to how most of us look, stuffed into our leisure wear. Thanks, Roberta Curley, for making me smile at the burgeoning rip and the breeze which tells us we overdid it on the pasta. The poem reminds me to enjoy the good things at hand in the year that feels like purgatory.