Crochet me a closet

Buckets on a Barefoot Beach

I keep looking for that closet


all the strands

of my life

are wound into neat balls,

waiting to be knit–

tidy patterns on shelves

and yellow and green skeins

and every assorted thing

crochet hooks,

and needles in a cushion

and pinned decisions

laid out as neat as

freshly-fallen snow angels

wearing home-made sweaters…

only to find

the door ajar,

buttons askance

and cross eyed tomcats

laying drunkenly next to a pair of hockey sticks

misplaced in a field of catnip

Darn it!

Where are my socks?

Somewhere, I suppose,

behind rose-painted thimbles

which hold enough lace and grace and strawberry wine

to sew me

a picnic in summertime

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