Suspenders

Or, as the Brits call them, braces. The prompt was to write a villanelle about clothes: I've done my best, but I don't think intricate verse forms will ever be my strong suit.

The wind turns the corner, and the time is gone.
I've refused all my life to wear a belt;
I'm wearing my jeans with suspenders on.

My beard is white. I'm hale and strong,
But the prime of my life has begun to melt.
The wind turns the corner. And the time is gone,

When my hips formed a shelf for a leather thong.
A pot belly is not improved by a welt,
So I'm wearing my jeans with suspenders on.

I could wear a dress, disguised with a sporran
And pretend to be more than a quarter Celt.
But the wind turns the corner, and the time is gone

When I cared if I looked like a Dilbert cartoon --
That Unix guy, pompous, and not at all svelte --
I'm wearing my jeans with suspenders on.

Strapped over the belly, I'd look eighty-one;
Below, like a salesman, egregiously stout.
The wind turns the corner, and the time is gone;
I'm wearing my jeans with suspenders on.