Threads are scattered across my lap. How long
have I lain cross this table?
Tic Tic the Clock
in the back of my head –
and the table rocks.
Threads. Thread… bare in my hands.
The original tie-in.
Like a macramé hanging –
in its unformed state
yet frayed from sliding fingers.
And the time.
Ceasing. Unceasing.
I relent.
the hands, the pen, the plug.
Toc Toc the Clock.
Stand – and the threads scatter
Across the floor.
Shelley Rae Bell
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