“Pinstriped skin? You want pinstriped skin?”
So, needlessly, you repeat it.
“Okay, okay. The Pinstripe Kid.”
He’s old. He fetches his needles
and a jar of powdered black ink.
“Take a couple months. At least weeks,
you know.” Yes, you know. The man slakes
the ink from a cracking teapot.
Though chilly, you take off your slacks.
“So what’s up?” he asks. “You pissed off
at your mother?” But when he asks,
it’s at the back wall, an aside.
So you don’t say anything. “Fuck,”
he barks, laughs or coughs. What? “Hell. Stripes.
You know? Never mind. You ready?”
You are. Each etching stroke feels like
bursting across a finish line.
More Andrew Goldfarb awesomeness including art, music and performance
at The Slow Poisoner www.theslowpoisoner.com