what if you are the thimble? spend
most of your life in the sewing box
even though Mimsie mends
every day — who mends these days?
every curtain needs mending
she says & can’t find the cord to power
her machine — think of stitching heavy
curtains all by hand, upholstery needle
pricking your thimble-free thumb
the sewing box rattles with promise
remember me? the thimble cries
only a few stitches into the job & I’ll
be shiny as when I was born — stamped
furled, however thimbles are made
I’m a lowly thimble, the smallest size
if lucky, I’ll be borne on Mimsie’s
finger until she dies, mending
the hired man’s overhauls, the master’s
waistcoat, the Sunday dress
the cook wears to visit her mother
miles away in Chipping Sodbury
my dimples welcome your thrusts
bless all thimbles, keep us from rust
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