by Lawrence J. J. Leonard
Sitting here in the by an by,
I notice one stitch is not aligned.
To cut it requires scissors.
How did it arrive? Why this day appear?
Is it the first domino
when tugged sends all unraveling?
At first to ignore it is easier than imagined.
Yet I find myself feeling it again
to consider its fate.
So soft against my fingers,
and a micro-reminder
that something is terribly out of place.
Blithe and gentle the fibers recline
against the back of my hand –
one too many times!
I finally find a pair of shears
and line up the base threads
but recoil at the violence of this finality.
Growing for some reason, this little string
dances over my thumb nail,
causing obsession and unnerving frustration.
Just hard to accept that a few strands of cloth
wound in a ripcord of spider-like fineness
could ever be so freaking annoying.
Tracing the thread to the origin of connection,
all the way to my . . . belly button?
“Pull the string already,” cries my friend.
“Wait!” I implore, “It’s connected to me!”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“My butt could fall off.” I hesitate, “Okay?”
Muster the courage, then give it a yank.
Copyright © 1960-2017 Lawrence J. J. Leonard All rights reserved.