There is a parking structure on the east end of town
goes up for miles and miles and miles, it seems
scrapes the lower parts of the sky that that the
skyscrapers don’t quite get around to scraping and
at the top of this ten-thousand car garage there’s
an old gentleman in a tweed sports coat
with bad breath and old leather shoes and
an old Singer sewing machine

(It has to be from the thirties)

that he sits behind
running all day by the pedals, making jackets and
sweaters and all the garments he can’t seem
to afford himself but he dosen’t charge much for them,
he begs a fair price at just a silver dollar a piece

(Nevermind that he only deals in Silver)

but the man has never seen a washtub I’d wager
and I’m not so sure he’s gone to Church or the like
so Brother you can tell him when you see him
that I wont’ be buying any of his clothes
until he gets himself a real god damned job
and a proper education