The Man in the Tattered Cape

I saw a man in a tattered cape
Many a time from Robin Row.
So curious he seemed to me
As none of him would show.

Every day he’d pass my way
T’wherever he would go,
Never pausing from his walk
Except on Robin Row.

And from my window sill I’d spy
Seeing whether if the wind
Would whip his tattered cowl so
That I might see if he had skin.

T’was then I let the sin begin.

For one can only see so much
From a window far away,
So I resolved a grave intent
To meet with him one day.

The very next, that is to say.

So as he paused on Robin Row
I grabbed what I might think his arm,
‘Till whooshing fabric whirled around
In twirling folds of dark alarm.

The cape and cowl seemed so deep!
As deep as I imagined from
The window I had occupied
A day ago! But thicker some.

And as I looked for eyes I found
There none to courteously fix
Mine upon. A rainy dusk
Began to fall into the mix.

“Why do you wear this tattered cape?”
I whispered him despite the rain.
“It is so worn and shorn and torn…
Though black it is, I find a stain.”

The man, he only looked at me.
“I wear this cloak for reasons three:
I hate my body, love my cape,
And it is what you’d rather see.

“But,” I said, “It looks so old!
So heavy for the summer heat!
And in the rain it’s soaking through
To make you heavy on your feet.”

But what he said he would repeat.

“But it’s so tattered—drags the ground!
It is too big for you!” I yelled.
When, in truth, I only ached
To see the darkness man un-shelled.

Again, he only looked at me.
“I wear this cloak for reason’s three:
I hate my body, love my cape,
And it is what you’d rather see.”

“But sir!” I yelled. “It must be patched!
And hemmed here where it clearly frays!
I am tailor, sir!” I lied.
“I’ll have it back in one… two days!”

My chest was in a raucous craze!

But the man, as calm as shade,
Turned his faceless hood from me,
And tugged away, and slowly walked
Toward his evening place to be.

I never thought I’d use the knife.
I did not think it’d come to that
But oily red that smeared my hand
Confirmed no wraith beneath it sat.

I swam through fabric dark as death
And shuffled through to strip the cloaked
And found a truly gruesome sight:
My own dead face. Chafed and choked.

The deepest fabric in my hand,
A silent horror for the twin
I felt until I gaped the cloak
And wrapped myself within.

I am the man in the tattered cape
I walk the darkness to and fro.
I hate my body, love my cape,
And pause to mourn on Robin Row