It comes in black

and blue, indecisive

beige. In red and chaperons my life.

Sitting like a strict

and spinstered aunt

spiked between my needs

and need.

It tats the day, crocheting

other people's lives

in neat arrangements,

ignoring me,

busy with the hemming

of strangers' overlong affairs or

the darning of my

neighbors' worn-out

dreams.

From Monday, the morning of the week,

through mid-times

noon and Sunday's dying

light. It sits silent.

Its needle sound

does not transfix my ear

or draw my longing to

a close.

Ring. Damn you!