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The tailor stands outside his shop
on the corner of 2nd and Jackson,
smoking a cigarette, transforming
his storefront into an art installation.
Once he goes back inside, installation
becomes performance art. Large red
vinyl letters cling to the window
and if you peer beyond them you can
see him attentively, rapidly hemming suits.
The needle darts perpendicular to the fabric
like a beak of a metallic woodpecker.
The stitches become train tracks
parallel to seams once stitched
by other machines.

& somehow the smell
of tobacco never transfers from
beneath his efficiently trimmed nails.

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