A thousand tailors stitching in the darkness Cutting grotesque patterns from the whole cloth And fitting them to phantom saviors Who are fat or thin depending on the day
They use colored threads and wishful thinking That tends to break at awkward moments Leaving a garment tenuously sturdy Until the moment when it’s not
As waterproof as cotton candy As close fitting as an id As cost effective as a wedding As colorful as oil on water.
The garments must all be delivered- A shiny new one every sunset. Tailors strive to meet their quotas Such urgent need for what they make.
They must replace the fraying tatters Spattered with the grime of loathing captured from the filthy air And the footprints etched in mud.
They must fill closets ever empty Though FedEx comes by every night. It’s Cinderella’s slipper syndrome When the clock hands stand up straight.
Tailors with their bleeding fingers Have no idea what they make And who will wear it for what purpose. That’s why they labor in the dark. ljm
I have nothing to say. I don't understand it either and I wrote it. Has something to do with those in high-but-not-very places.