From Dinner With Carl At Gene's 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

From Dinner With Carl At Gene's 2



His mom had been a seamstress to the stars in the long ago days when New York was a fashion center. Creativity has long fled to places like Berlin or Barcelona, just as production fled to China, but largely that's the doing of landlords. High rent will kill a town eventually and driving rent is greed- never in short supply, here. For many years she leased her talents to a fashion house whose name remains unsaid. Once, Carl proudly recalled, in a hail of sirens, Mrs. R.B.S.- -yes, THE Mrs. R.B.S., arrived for alterations, late. These were entrusted to his mom, a tribute to pluck and know-how. Too, she had a talent for self-effacement, said Carl, once, on the phone, as I listened patiently. She could give sound professional advice in ways that didn't rile you. 'Sure', she could', I thought. Actually, I guessed her something of a harridan. But I came to believe him, he sounded sincere.

Unfailingly, each year, Carl sent a Christmas card and, unfailingly, I got one off back, just under the wire. In it, he updated me on his mom's doings- a way of saying 'thanks' that assumed an interest on my part. Eight of these cards I still had, leaving only twelve unaccounted for. I didn't know what became of them. I called them 'the lost years'and laughed. Beyond what I recalled, supplemented by rare phone chits, everything I knew about Carl was contained in those cards. So, when his note came in the mail inviting me to dinner (after all these years) I made it my job to locate them. Unable to find a one, I studied the eight closely for clues that might prepare me for the encounter. His...

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