By Maya AngelouIt comes in blackand blue, indecisivebeige.
It tats the day, crocheting
other people’s livesin neat arrangements,ignoring me,busy with the hemmingof strangers’ overlong affairs orthe darning of my neighbors’ worn-outdreams.
It sits silent.
its needle sound
does not transfix my earor draw my longing toa close.
Allowed
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