Douglas Fritock

One evening, by the tie rack at the Rochester Goodwill,
(the now-defunct one once tucked into a corner
of the old IBM building), an older gentleman,
wearing an oxford shirt and a bowtie, slowly approached
as I ran my fingers through that mop of silken tresses.
“Seen any bowties?” he asked, pointing to his own.
And when I said I hadn’t, he told me he worked
at a local butcher shop, liked wearing ties
but could only wear bowties. I nodded, my mind
instantly conjuring the hazards of a meat grinder.
This was back when I resold men’s neckwear
and checked the racks weekly. I knew my regimentals
from my repp stripes, my club ties from my emblematics,
and my tartan plaids from my Indian madras.
In time he wandered off, while I continued to browse,
and we never crossed paths again. But in the months
and years that followed, whenever I scored a collection
of musty old bows, a lifetime’s assemblage bagged up
and dropped in a bin, then strewn carelessly over
a rack, I would think of him working the counter,
dapperly sawing a side of beef or smartly operating
a meat slicer, a knot of colorful silk waving jauntily
above his blood-stained apron.