Adam S.
Google
On Thirty-Seventh Street, three flights above
The sidewalk chaos of the Garment District,
There lies a place that sewers fall in love
With instantly—the selection is unrestricted.
It's Mood. You've seen it on the television screen,
Where Tim Gunn sent designers in a dash
To grab their bolts of charmeuse, silk, and sheen
And sprint back to the workroom with their stash.
"Go to Mood!" he'd say, and off they'd fly
Through aisles of organza, tweed, and lace,
With thirty minutes left and tears to cry
And chiffon draped across a panicked face.
But you, dear shopper, you can take your time.
You'll wander floors of fabric, wall to wall—
Italian wools that cost a paradigm,
And Liberty of London prints for fall.
The leathers hang like pelts inside a cave.
The velvets beg you, touch me, go ahead.
The African wax prints are bold and brave,
The Japanese denims, indigo and red.
A woman in the corner holds a swatch
Against her cheek and whispers to her friend,
"I drove from Philadelphia just to watch
This dupioni catch the light. I'll never mend."
The staff know every selvage, every weave,
They'll tell you what will drape and what will not,
Which interfacing works, how to achieve
A bias cut from what you've already got.
"You want to make a blazer out of this?
You'll need a lining, darling. Something slick.
Come here—this cupro. Feel it. That's the kiss.
Two yards will do it. Maybe three to pick."
And Swatch the cat! That legendary beast,
A bulldog, actually—forgive the name—
Who roamed the aisles, the greatest and the least
Celebrity that Mood could ever claim.
You came for half a yard of cotton twill.
You're leaving with a bolt of silk brocade,
Six zippers, and a catastrophic bill,
But oh—the coat you'll make will be handmade.
Five stars. Where Project Runway dreams are born,
And every bolt of cloth becomes a song,
Where scissors wait and measuring tapes adorn
The hands of those who've sewn their whole lives long.