“It is too big,” he says
in his tough Mexican accent.
I tell him he’s made a mistake
I can’t help him
and I hope he won’t be offended
as I ask him
why he, of all people,
would want to wear a suit.
“For my funeral,” he says proudly.
“Pancho,” I say, putting a hand
on his shoulder, “don’t you know
you already died, a long time ago?”
“SÌ,” he says, “when I died then
I had no suit.
Do you understand?”
I give him the name and address
of a tailor in town.
“A nip here, a tuck there
from Applebaum and your suit
will cling to you like a glove,
or a royal bandana.”
He thanks me with a “Viva”
and veers off
like destiny itself often does:
dejected, feeling naked and alone,
searching for a change of history,
a suit, a suit that fits.