"You have to take care of leather," he said.
"Saddle soap and the right temperature.
Body heat dries it out, cracks it,
breaks it like chicken bones."
His black hands, like leather, pulled at the
plastic armchair.
"Leather is expensive goods, it lives and breathes.
Not like this vinyl."
He repaired car seats for nearly a half century,
worked with all kinds of fabrics,
replaced one square foot in a Corvette
and it cost fifty-five dollars.
"Take the saddle soap and rub it like this."
His leather hand slid back and forth on the chair arm,
swinging the infusion line.
"Her name was Louise.
I followed her from North Carolina to Ohio.
Married forty-five hears. She died.
Now it's my torn."
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