Used Clothing Store

A large stock of past lives

To rummage through

For the one that fits you

Cleaned and newly pressed,

Yet frayed at the collar.

A dummy dressed in black

Is at the door to serve you.

His eyes won't let you go.

His mustache looks drawn

With a tip of a dead cigar.

Towers of pants are tilting,

As you turn to flee,

Dead men's hats are rolling

On the floor, hurrying

To escort you out the door.