Every single day must have a sewing machine of sorts
To work on the grisly and the growly spots littering the
Ground. The smells of atrophy hanging down the walls
The mould thickening and smelling inside wet worrisome
Patches of belief in the goodness of everything.
This Sewing machine, the one I have, has a lot of furry threads
That keep it soft and in tender working conditions. Its paws
Repair rabid disturbances and make the day stumble upon
Hope. It has the ability to fix button holes that have lost the
Buttons, by snoozing on them or inviting dreams of daring
Or activating some kind of action to freeze the fetid hours
It also works as a tailor, a two in one kind of rare arrangement.
It stitches new clothes out of my ragged garments of grace gone
Away for ever. This tailor teases them out of nowhere with her paws.
She is good at stitching wash and wear clothes for the iciest winter of woes.
Being such a good washer too, this tailor makes a pile of clean dresses, to wear inside
That blizzard’s scanty hut where no fire can light up hope. But this tailor can and does!