ABOVE EYE LEVEL
It is late afternoon, a Saturday.
A Chinese newsagents is closed,
Still displaying lanterns behind the wire mesh over the shop window.
Above, an open sash window lets fresh air in a first floor room.
An overweight, grey haired, moustachioed man, cigarette in mouth,
Talks to two younger men.
Another man, an older, smaller version, bespectacled,
Sits at a bench at the next window, cloth in hand,
Bobbins of cotton fixed above the bench.
Through the third window, fading posters, leaflets are fixed to the wall,
A couple of old shelves are crammed with small boxes and books.
Through the first window,
The back wall is covered in record covers and pages from magazines
Which all feature Pavarotti’s face,
Over an inner doorway, a lone florescent light tube shines.
On the wall outside,
A simple white Perspex board has black letters
Announcing the man’s name and trade.
It is probably thirty years old
And looks, like the man,
Unaltered, apart from the effects of aging
And slowly getting out of date.
“RAFFAELLE CANDILLIO, ALTERATION TAILOR, 01 734 0189”
In the street below,
People pass by, some who have finished work and separate for their journeys home,
Others in the small burger bar opposite.
Meanwhile, Raffaelle keeps working
As the world around him evolves and changes,
Wrapped up in his tailoring
And memories of the old
And his childhood in