FUGUE, Vol. 1, No.I
At thirty-eight be held a worn coat before him In front of innocent eyes "Nineteen stitches," be proclaimed, "In each and every button, It is our standard, It is our name." To which the meek voice replied, "But why?" "It is not why, or how or what, It is only so. This you will learn." At 57, his fingers danced the dance of nineteen The standard was upheld But the strength was gone Crushed by an errant "Why?" The last stroke through again drew blood Without pain or notice.
In his box, in his suit, He lay a dead and dignified man. For each button on his coat, There were only six stitches Sewn in haste by thoughtless, danceless hands. "And this," the young man said to his own son, "This you will learn." -Mark Perison
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho