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!