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  • Writer's pictureMichaela
    • Mar 20, 2020
    • 1 min read

Object Sonnet: Singer Treadle Machine

I am the needle held without a hand

I thrum to anticipate creation

My place is here--here to spin and stand

Bobbin whirling under foot's notation

While the fabric moves through me I rejoice

Though subject to my partner's whims and flaws

How I want the home to smile at my voice!

Yet my own silence interrupts wee hours.

I fill them thinking of reclaiméd sheets

Or cringing to feel my misplaced drawerknob

I'm shamefaced, guilty as my four wheels squeak

And then; stark moments ere sunrise give a throb:

Reminding me to clothe, and make, and stitch

And that one will save nine without a hitch.

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