Under denim folds

we try on women like clothes
after some years,
we look back at our wardrobe,
out of style, so damn old;
some pants are ripped,
some shirts still fit;
while others we donate
to the poor, laughing at
the stories they once told;
we take others to the tailor
to recall the sea as sailors,
to be fix again or resewn.
I keep buttons and zips
they cinched in their teeth,
dressed in beautiful lips,
digging for treasure
under denim folds,
as I recall,
painfully slow.