Eleven

i spit at the end of the thread,
and push it to the eye of the needle.

it bends, twists, disintegrates, splits,
misses,
beats around the bush,

(with irreverance to the fact that my face is presently most unladylike)

shovels its feet around in the sand,
knots up its fingers,
tugs at its hair,
sniffles,
twists the odd end of tablecloth –

there.
i lost thread.

7 thoughts on “Eleven”

  1. Once again in reply to your comment:I never said that! I love writing… Poetry really isn’t my forte so perhaps I might have grumbled a little, especially if a poet like Lemn Sissay was around at that time! 🙂

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