She sewed pockets into her uniform skirt,
said if she was going to be made to wear
this navy tablecloth, it needed purpose
beyond that of body and conformity,
past the roll call of religious and institution,
affiliation.
She wore glasses that she exchanged
for goggles to do her afternoon mechanics.
She, a poet of troubled thoughts of graphite
spread upon leaflets torn she wanted tucked
away until the midnight mind purge.
So she stitched in pockets to each side of her skirt,
the used blue cotton thick as overcast sky.
The things she needed now were near hugging
hip, and her hands were happy to
have a place to land as she smiled and
looked away mid-conversation.
Friends, sewing in some pockets isn’t so much
thinking outside the box as it is giving the self what
it needs when the void is obvious and too often, like
the deepest of dreams, overlooked. When, really, an
elemental act like thread put to needle, its
dagger point urging over and again, is
what stands between us and a new way of living.