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Interview Suit




It’s as pressed as I am,

Just as stiff and new,



Eminently suitable, I’m told, but still

It doesn’t suit me at all.


Binding me here, much too big for me to fill there

Stitched to storied standard,

Made to mean measure,

It’s off the rack.


I’m not.

This Inquisition’s just got underway.


My suit insists that I grow broader shoulders,

Laments my legs (lacking imposing length),

And worries round my just-too-rounded waist.

I strive to swell 

                           to stretch 

                                           to suck in 

                                                           to accede to expectations


The mirror and I reflect together that such procrustean garb

Is surely not my strong suit.


Still, it’s just a somber shell 

               The uniform of yearners.

We suit up in pursuit 

               Of quite a different symbol.

This black’s the emblem of a bid

To wear The White.

I long to be a turncoat.


And so I struggle in, shrug on, adjust, make do, fit in.

After all, I’m hardly here to suit myself.


Once properly encased, appropriately impeded,

I follow suit.

I consent, like any other chrysalis,

To choose what’s chosen for me,

Await the change.

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