There was no posted apology.
It was the last
generation of garment shops.
Businesses devoted to making hats and dresses.
Their kids would be lawyers or accountants.
No one used last names, and everyone talked in scream.
(Sewing machines prevented modulated speech).
These guys, and some wives, knew the business,
And lived off the energy of “buyers.”
Christmas mattered little,
Group prayers were offered for Easter Sunday.
If the ladies, in large numbers, went to church in new
finery
It presaged a good season after “slack”.
Slack was the fifth season.
Bad weather, or a new French design,
Augured no business, redesigns,
And returns from the big buyers.
Somehow in the maelstrom of employees not showing,
Materials arriving late, and car horns hollering to each
other,
These guys maintained a sense of humor.
It centered around the word “nu”.
In his shop, Marvin might greet you with,
“Nu, today the heat is working,
And the rats are leaving.
They don’t like the smell of the new deli food.”
Theirs was a business for fatalists.
It required fortitude built upon a foundation
That stated two good years in a row
Meant the third year would be a disaster.
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