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.