He frames you in a triangle with the vertex

of his eyes, and approximates the sizes

of parts of your body by instinctive trigonometry.


Scissors in hand, he appears the surgeon’s isomer.

A programmer, he concatenates what you bring - strings

of torn skirts or blouses, with buttons and hooks.


He has seen you through your wears, and if you don’t

stop him without cloth, by night he might clothe

the entire neighbourhood by his cronjob.


He returns your dress with signs of x, -, / or +

in the place of holes. The zeros are gone,

the deal done as you exchange notes.


When you leave, he might offer

you a couplet or quote a proverb.

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