When he was a clothing cutter my grandfather Max
Didn't go home during busy season but slept,
As did the other workers, on the cutting tables
Or on piles of fabric. At the beginning of the season
Their dreams expected to find them in their beds
And, disappointed, might be seen moving slowly
Through the late-night streets, cursing their ill-fortune.
Max's friend Shepsie -- his real name is lost now
And may have been lost then -- had just one dream
It was ragged from having been dreamt so often
And though the tailors did their best for it,
Sewing up holes and patching it with remnants,
The police sometimes arrested it for vagrancy.
