Sunday, 25 March 2018

Unstitch Me

by Amy Ballard Rich

No matter
the knitted brows
cross-stitched my way
under molded ceilings

I refused to genuflect
before the Queen Bee;
luckily I have become immune
to repeated stings

Regulation decorations sparkle,
pulsing under thumping big books;
clichés begging for repetition,
hoping they will be obeyed

The basket-case was passed,
passers-by cased the joint,
don’t say the wrong thing;
they might drop a stitch

The room was full
of proud carrots
who vehemently insisted
they were not vegetables

I walked away,
cleansed myself in ocean waves,
breathing fresh gusts of wind

That carried me home

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