Hot Pants

Hot Pants

Remember that bar in Oregon
back in '86? You and I strolled
inside in our California
shorts, no idea it was faux pas
for a man to be wearing,
shall we say, short-shorts; your legs
certainly sizzled, and this
was a logger bar. Remember that guy
sucking down whiskey and beers;
he had that gleam in his eye for me,
bought us a draft, and himself
another Johnny Walker. Maybe he was
three sheets to the wind,
but he ended up saving us. Remember
that moment you got up to go to the john
and he warned you be careful
in there and sure enough some big
bruiser bullied you about the shorts:
Ocean-Pacifics, pale purple corduroys;
I can still see them. Our friend
went in to make sure you'd be okay,
told that beefy logger to back off,
turned it into a joke. You
returned to your barstool,
shaken. He slugged
what was left of his shot, called for another,
turned to me, That boyfriend of yours
sure got some nice legs, he laughed
as he patted me on the thigh
with his calloused hand.