I'm sitting at my local Caribou,
smelling it's warm, welcoming smells.
Sipping my hot, smooth mocha.
I can hear the murmur of fellow customers,
and the clicking of keyboards.

This is when they enter,
the pants are treetops.
They speak to me,
like mother-nature whispering in my ear.
They order a turtle mocha, then sit down at the table parallel to mine,
allowing me to make further observations.

They are a lamely magnificent shade of green; like grass,
serenading onto the corduroy cut.
I can’t help but think of Corduroy, the friendly bear,
wielding his dark green corduroy overalls.

As I look, the pants seem to grow,
expand, filling my eyes with their immaculate color and patterns.
The pants show no places of strain and worn.
they are new.
I wonder, where these green pants were made.
I must have them.

I confront these green pants and yield in their majestic fold.
I ask where they have come from.
The voice of a man replies,
and explains that they originate from a place called “Gap.”

I run to my car, leaving my laptop and coffee sitting at the table in sorrow.
My GPS tells me a Gap is just 10 minutes away.
I get there in 6.

I walk into the mall, it’s interior mainly white, compared to it’s tan walls outside.
The Gap is right there.
After entering, I search in exasperation,
but have no luck.

The woman at the front desk, with a blue Gap shirt and perfume smelling of roses,
tells me she’ll go check in the back.

As intense minutes tick by, I begin to sweat with worry,
melting into sorrow.

The woman emerges, holding them in her hands.
My heart skips a beat as I receive them.
They are erotic to the touch.
I take him home, and we are conjoined,
not two, but one.