The Assignment: A 10 line iambic pentameter conceit poem.
His Favorite Pair of Jeans
He once compared me to a pair of jeans,
Velveteen-threadbare, torn, and faded jeans.
We were as close as clothing then, denim
Dressed and pressed against each other. Thirteen
Years my best friend. So best he could forget
The holes, the stains, the fraying edges, warm
As skin, smoothed by tears and friction. When I’m
Washed out, blue, thin and barely held together.
When seams give out and fabric tears completely,
I’ll still be his favorite pair of jeans.