We will become famous tailors.
Tim Coe

1. When men see us, their eyes round and brown, their arms will ache with awe, their legs shaking, their mouths forming round “O”s. They will arrive at our shows, our famous tailor shows, in red knit caps in winter, khaki shorts in summer, discount scarves and shirt collars. They will find their seats, and stand, and when we bow onto the stage they will rise up, up, and wish their friends named Stephen were here. Their friends named Josie, named Ron. These men wear moustaches and old cologne, and when they come home evenings their wives and girlfriends and mothers cluck “Good luck” and kiss their fingers to their walls.

2. We will have two spotlights shining, and large red letters with our names and stage names. We will rent trailers, own sleek black cars, drive small white ones. Our friends will recall when they knew us best, and they will lift fizzing glasses to us and inflate giant balloons. All our friends will own dogs. We will have golden needles, and golden thread, and our tongues will taste celebrity and flashbulbs.

3. Picture: Bands in tassled uniforms, bolts of purple fabric and of blue fabric. Our stitching is close and even, our hands fast like punishment. Children, mothers, doctors, New Yorkers travel to see us sew, to watch us through opera glasses and dime-store binoculars, to glance at the Jumbotron and watch our eyes, to see our silver eyes never waver, our eyes steady and still, our hands diving and rising, our thread invisible and sure. Stadium speakers will announce our names, small bald men with bowties and nervous fingers will speak and fall silent, elegant women with print dresses will pat their hair, their mouths closed. We sit in small chairs, or on stools, with piles of cloth around us. Watch us.

4. What are we making? We will sew clothes, and curtains, couch covers, neck ties, hoop skirts, embroidered banners, tapestries, quilts, underpants, blouses, small hats, bed sheets, leather vests, pillows. We will cover arms, and underarms, and shame, and guilt. What are we making? What are we unmaking?

© 2007 Tim Coe