The Melancholy Tailor

It seemed everything he stitched was a destiny.

As he pinned up the shoulders, the darts

under the breasts, the hems of the trousers

he felt as close to their futures

as he was to their bodies.

When he fitted the pleatless pants of the groomsman

he knew a bridesmaid would unzip them.

Oh he hemmed her waltz-length taffeta too.

And her sister’s. And the moonfaced roommate’s

from New York. He knew which of the aqua

dresses would flow down like a wave

to the feet of the kissing couple. He made little tucks

to flatter the roommate’s waistline.

Velcro he scoffed at way past its invention.

But the fingerless kid from the war in Vietnam

came in and said “velcro.” With his paws he pointed

to zipper and buttons. “Next week,” said the tailor,

planning his order. He saw the man fastening

his own coats and pants, ripping off his own clothes

with the drama of sound, doing whatever

in the rest of his life he chose to do.

The CEO was sizing down. This man’s waist

went in, and in again. Was it sex or sickness?

The tailor tried not to wonder, though he knew

either way, it wouldn’t work out. He fitted

such clients with weight-loss in silence,

kneeling before them to taper the legs,

his mouth full of pins.

Once, when he was thirty, he had measured

from the cowlneck, long-sleeved top

to the slit, tight skirt’s hem, a dress of pale velvet.

She stood on his new-painted platform

turning when he said turn

as he pinned in every inch to fit

her elongated, sinuous curves.

And after she was gone, he held the gown

against him with one arm and with the other

swept his sewing table clean of clothes.

He stitched and stitched at the small black machine.

And the juddering noise, his deft foot on the treadle,

the flow of warm velvet through his fingers

was the last time he didn’t know what would happen.