at the tuxedo rental store

no need to measure material

to accommodate my body stylings.

the proprietor’s once-over is enough.

he starts with the jacket

without asking my preference.

If he thought I knew better

I’d have a tux hanging in my closet.

I try it on without being insulted.

he pulls the material of the shoulders

up and down, he fusses with the lapels

running his thumbs across the shiny

length right and left.

he studies the hemlines leaning his head

one way then the other, giving a slight tug

to insure a proper fit.

the proprietor of the tuxedo rental store

knows what to do and considers the image

standing mute before him as though

I had no part to play in his findings.––

It's none of me, and all about the drapery.

It’s the way Ingres might’ve played around

adjusting the gown cascading over the seated form

of Baroness Betty de Rothschild.

I suppose most things work out for the best in the end.

1961? 1962?