Holy Man

Holy Man What causes the sound of a crude sewing machine? Its needle in contact with its teeth or the pedal or its wheel? A tailor once said to me that God listens to us by wearing one of His: a robe of piety, a sandal of faith in pair. He pulls the cloth I brought and feeds it with ease to the hungry mouth on his lap. Faith is without seeing and for others a fantasy, he says, when you come face to face with Him is reality. And in our lifetime we had plenty of choices. In a shop of multicoloured ready-to- wear. Which one you’ll pick? The polo shirt rushes its way from his hands to my torso. We exchanged views till sundown, stitched his thoughts into mine, unthread the locks and chains forward and then back, as if to say that life is so short without a pattern or shape. If I could only draw the formless and believe. Out the door with a coat for my nakedness. The weighing was not to be found wanting.