Suit Season

This is terra nova,
or rather, mare ignotum
in which we now swim.
Unfamiliar tongues whisper
about sharkskin,
as if a deep-sea predator
sized thirty-eight long
will swim up the aisle
at any moment.

Why are there buttons
here along the cuff,
he asks as he stands
and turns about
in front of the mirror,
an eerie reflection of
a small blond child
he once was,
all why-when-where-why
accompaniment,
a curious young lieutenant for
this coin-bearing sail
across retail Styx.

To keep men from wiping
their runny noses
along their sleeves,
says one theory,
I can only reply,
attributing the origin
to that dapper Corsican
who adorned his soldiers
and sailors alike
in the finest French
men's fashion circa 1814.
A student of European history,
he nods wryly,
knowing attire does not
assure a fleet's success.

And now we sail into
the mare crisium,
churning waters of
crises foamed by
social constraints.
Which is better,
this suit, or that tuxedo?
Which will his friends buy,
and what will his date prefer?
What other hazards are there,
beyond the price on the label?

I cannot answer these queries.
This sea is uncharted
for me as well.
His older sibling
was so much easier,
as if born to swim
in these turbulent tides.
She only asked for
my money, she never
asked for my time.
Her liquid pink gown proved
her powerful navigation skills.

But we paddle on,
attacking the rapids
of ties, vests, and
cumberbundian fjords.
He will look as if
he, too, was born
to traverse these waters.
Brave on, my little sailor,
per audacia ad ignotum,
voyage into the
strange new sea.

__________
Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse
Photo: Steven Depolo via Flickr