Author's Note: I took a costuming class in College for basket weaving style credit and part of the grade was an essay on my experience. I chose to write it as a poem.
I descend the stair with trepidation and with thought,
Just what meaning has this bought?
Down below me the floor doth approach,
To lead me to the costume shop.
I turn the corner, shadows leap and leer.
I stand there petrified, of a full length mirror!
Down the hall my eyes do gaze,
No open door, no light beyond,
To lead me to the costume shop.
I stand before the locked unmoving door,
Then slowly move to sit upon the floor.
Noises soon assault my ears,
There's nothing there, but it nears!
Louder noises, more shapes to be seen,
I sit there petrified of Phyllis and Jean!
I try to act casual (at least I hope to seem)
But the hall still reverberates from a healthy scream.
The door is opened wide and a light shines bright,
To lead me into the costume shop.
Machines do whir, material does stir,
As one manipulates with thread.
Creating costumes of the living and the dead.
Cross stitch here, over lock there,
Words I never knew.
Much less run a machine (and thread it too!)
Cut here, along this line, don't even vary.
Consequences of failing? That's really scary!
I've been down here before, I know.
But only when, or for a show.
I never saw, or really thought about what went down,
Then, as Paul, the scales were lifted I can see
The work, the time, the running around
That went into a costume, just for me.
I appreciate the endeavors of a gallant pair,
Who, through storm and malice, in a darken lair
Sit and weave and stitch seams,
Giving life to drawings and to dreams.
