Jeans by: Nicole Busch

Jeans

By: Nicole Busch

The ripped seams, the torn edges, washed out blue

The nearly invisible stitches along the bottom

Turned into a workshop by the Chinese.

The seam presser, the cutter, the button

Blinking on and off like an old flashlight

The button I fasten, it’s a tight fit.

The thin needle, the treadle, the bobbin

The flashy and bright glow at the big and

Tall factory in year nineteen- thirteen.

Two hundred employed, yet not all could fit

In the building across the way, a very

Eager witness watched the young adults move.

They move in and out, taking breaks for lunch

And other various family affairs

Trying to provide for the ones they love.

Their little munchkins, begging and pleading

To go into work with their role models

To shadow them in many successes.

Our premium jeans mean close to nothing,

To those who choose to wear them and flaunt them

But to us, they mean more than words could show.

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

Or like a simple symmetric pattern

Diamonds, crystals, fabric, each its own.

The meaning wrapped and sewn up in each stitch

The hand crafted work shown so immensely

Women and men of all different ages.

The buttonholes, the sizing, the pant legs

Printed in black on the back and pant loop

The label, the labor, the shade, the jeans.

________________________________________________________________________________ 

Shirt

By: Robert Pinsky

The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,

The nearly invisible stitches along the collar

Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break

Or talking money or politics while one fitted

This armpiece with its overseam to the band

Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,

The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,

The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.

One hundred and forty-six died in the flames

On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--

The witness in a building across the street

Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step

Up to the windowsill, then held her out

Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.

And then another. As if he were helping them up

To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

A third before he dropped her put her arms

Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held

Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared

And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,

Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--

Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning."

Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly

Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme

Or a major chord.  Prints, plaids, checks,

Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,

To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed

By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers

To wear among the dusty clattering looms.

Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter

Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton

As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

George Herbert, your descendant is a Black

Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma

And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

And feel and its clean smell have satisfied

Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality

Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters

Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,

The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.