Crochet me a closet

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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