The hall is strewn with frayed jeans,
candy wrappers peeking out of torn pockets.
The denims lie in front of their respective doors,
knobs coated with a different substance each.
Many of the doors have hinges that need oiling;
others have only been walked through once.
Still one lies unopened, and the pants
that have yet to lie in front of it still rest
nervously on my wobbly limbs.
I stand in front of it, one hand in my pocket.
Candy bar in the other, I feel a sudden breeze
as the pants drop from around my waist,
my thighs, and eventually, my legs.
I step through the last door in my boxers,
knowing that the hall will still be empty
when I walk back out.