Threading the needle with greatest of care,
the cloth caught a gust and kicked into the air.
Alice was red, she had tried fifteen times.
Her thumb sprouted blood on a canvas of white.
No matter, no matter, just holes in her clothes.
Her socks are so old you can count off each toe.
They poke through and blister inside of her shoe
and the damnable needle won’t let the thread through.
So Alice goes shoeless and walks where it’s soft.
She’s grown mighty tired of mending her socks.