Today's poem is by Sarah J. Sloat
Naïve, you called me, posh
and polished as a sampler
sewn with yarn.
Trundling clumsy in skirts,
I never got beyond the whirlygig
reeling on the unmown lawn.
It was my way to put things plain.
I stitched a heart upon my sleeve
at the elbow, where the cloth was worn.
You were cut from finer cloth.
It's not my fault
I was drawn wrong.
Bad luck threw its weight around
my off proportions, toppled
the cock from the top of the barn.
Mine was a small world, small
and flawed. I could never hold you
with such short arms.
Copyright © 2007 Sarah J. Sloat All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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