by Spencer Reece
I am thirty-three and working in an expensive clothier，
selling suits to men I call "Sir."
These men are muscled， groomed and cropped——
with wives and families that grow exponentially.
Mostly I talk of rep ties and bow ties，
of full-Windsor knots and half-Windsor knots，
of tattersall， French cuff， and English spread collars，
of foulards， neats， and internationals，
of pincord， houndstooth， nailhead， and sharkskin.
I often wear a blue pin-striped suit.
My hair recedes and is going gray at the temples.
On my cheeks there are a few pimples.
For my terrible eyesight， horn-rimmed spectacles.
One of my fellow-workers is an old homosexual
who works hard and wears bracelets with jewels.
No one can rival his commission checks.
On his break he smokes a Benson & Hedges cigarette，
puffing expectantly as a Hollywood starlet.
He has carefully applied a layer of Clinique bronzer
to enhance the tan on his face and neck.
His hair is gone except for a few strands
which are combed across his scalp.
He examines his manicured lacquered nails.
I admire his studied attention to details：
his tie stuck to his shirt with masking tape，
his teeth capped， his breath mint in place.
The old homosexual and I laugh in the back
over a coarse joke involving an octopus.
Our banter is staccato， staged and close
like those "Spanish Dances" by Granados.
I sometimes feel we are in a musical——
gossiping backstage between our numbers.
He drags deeply on his cigarette.
Most of his life is over.
Often he refers to himself as "an old faggot."
He does this bemusedly， yet timidly.
I know why he does this.
He does this because his acceptance is finally complete——
and complete acceptance is always
bittersweet. Our hours are long. Our backs bent.
We are more gracious than English royalty.
We dart amongst the aisles tall as hedgerows.
Watch us face into the merchandise.
