Suits For Funerals

The man with the long, sad eyes

Hovers among the row of dress pants

And matching blazers

Comparing the size he may

Fit in now

And the size he was

At the age he bought his first suit.



He moves slowly, unwillingly

Toward the row of

Jacket and pant combinations.

He stretches his arms into a

42 Regular-

Amazing himself with the fact

That his guess of jacket size is correct.



He sees his friends and relatives

In his mind

As he forces himself into the dressing room

With three different dress pants

-All three of equal length

And varietal waiste size.



The smallest waiste size is correct.

The length, however confounding,

Is too short. He stands in the pants

Confronting his reflection

In the full-length dressing room mirror,

Wearing pants snug about his waiste line

But far enough up his shin

That he feels foolish, and small.



He pictures himself in front of a crowd

Of everyone who has ever known him

Delivering a speech of refinement

And excellence; the entire time

Attempting to hide behind the podium

So the audience is not distracted by

His socks that dangle glaringly

Out from under the high-water pant legs.



He listens from the dressing room

To a young couple on the sales floor

Discussing their upcoming wedding

And choosing ties to watch the groom's

Outfit.



He holds his jeans in one hand

And the dress pants in the other,

Overhearing the young couple's conversation

With an urgency he has not felt

In years.



He is suddenly in a hurry.

This somber, unwanted search

For a jacket and pants that fit,

And match

Has accellerated without his control.



He wants out of the dressing room,

Out of the store so passionately,

He leaves only buying a suit jacket

That is his size

Without the matching pants;

Dreading the act of having to come back

Or shop at any other store again.



"Good enough to be buried in."



Is what his tailor had said to him

The day he was fitted for a tux

Before his first wedding

Many, many years ago.



The statement had seemed humorous

Even with it's ominous undertones.



It had made him relax

And forget about being nervous

Before the Big Day.



There are no Big Days

In later life, however.

There are good days

Both sentimental and heartwarming,

There are times with loved ones

Both enriching and charming and quaint

-But when one is buying suits for funerals,

Instead of for celebrations,

The shame of leaving the store

Without the complete purchase

Floods the senses with negativity

That at times

Neither tears nor compassion can cure.



At home; the dark jacket

Lies in it's garment bag

Not even hung up, or pressed properly,

The man sits, not even able to look at it,

Waiting for it to be worn.

As if, the suit bought for a funeral

Wears him; while he is just an inanimate object

-And the jacket itself is the body

That moves between pews

In an endless wake- Repeated

In a trance by all the bodiless garments

That wish to bid farewell to each other

As another of them is laid into the ground

-Unmoving, broken; slightly flawed and crumpled

-The bags of garments relentlessly

Stacked upon each other for all eternity

Their zippered casings

Interlocked, interwoven

-The trappings of a maze of earth's age-

Many too young

To be thrown into that mess

Of unreplenished humanity.