Cloth, oh it spins tall tales

lays the table, picnic gale

oh, though the crumbs are stale

threadbare back, Godiva trailed

horseshoes from her loosened nails

oh, this weaver wears no veil

Hands gloved to touch love.


Lacking teeth, this sister latches

all the doors

catches no action

– holding traction paused her claws

even odd she tapes the lot-

snatches space to snore

inbetwitching keeping score

she measures your yawns

A woven blanket on her knees.


At the back, comes she who smacks, her lips

tightens threads and cracks, her whip

reaches in the sack, where snips

of black slip in ships through the rips…

Pus, whispered the cat as she clacked,

Us hush, don’t fuss

she shushed, no rush, sweeping brush.

Scraps cushion her feet.


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