places adjectives
as threads to sew my holey words
together. His eye is sharper
than a needle. He makes cuts

to adjust the silky fabric of the line
onto the model. Letting out, and
taking in, meritoriously measuring for
the uniform fit. Without him I’d be

a tired scarecrow hanging tied to
a pole on a cloudy day. Or a loose as a pile
of leaves not raked. I cannot brag, for it is he
that weaves his fibers into me with every

word. His stanzas are my buttons to hold
the garment together. He’s weather-proofed
my blackest suit. He’s made a sheen
that catches the reader’s eye. He’s a Mercedes –

given me license to drive. Thank you, prized
editor for being my tailor. Without you
I’d be patches of cloth none bought. Only you
can see the Cinderella in me. You turned a rotten

pumpkin into a shiny coach. You made a grey
mouse a bucking horse that flies off the page.