Thread

At your place I find no hesitance to kick up my heels,
place my hair in a bun and get on my knees;
find the absentminded string that abandoned its brothers
on the side of the Oriental rug and pull pull pull
watch it unravel, hoist the rug up so I watch
the thread weave its way from the matting
and afterward drape it in a wide “O” on the teak wood floors,
admire your photos and paintings of fine dining
abstractions hanging at such precise angles for the sun
to catch its rays in late afternoon and gleam
gold and orange and reflect the gathering dust on the Orient
rug while the thread wanders in one infinite circle
until it catches and roughens your Dyson.

© 2009 Daryn Houston