Stitched

57 years in the same spot.
Corner Queens Road and Graham Street.
Opposite one of Hongkong's more exclusive and expensive office complexes.
The Center.

People working in The Center wear designer garb to work.
They mend them across the street.

Mending has no brand.
He's fixed more badly put together thousand-dollars suits
and three-hundred-dollars shirts than he cares to remember.

Life across the street has changed.
Is changing.
When he started the buildings were old and tired and low.
On the other side.

On his side nothing much has changed.
Only they're talking about tearing it down now.
He hopes it won't happen before he retires.

He doesn't intend to retire.
Not yet.
Not in many years.

He's survived thousands of career-minded people.
Seen them come and go.
Climb up and fall down.
Seen how new shirts have become old and worn.

He can tell from the collar who's doing well and who's not.
He knows before they do. Where they're heading.

But he isn't going anywhere.
No holding company will determine his faith.
They come and go and he's above it all.
Just across the street.
A man that stitches broken suits together.

They'll get him too, sooner or later.