While waiting in line, the woman behind me knitted my hair into a baby blanket for a child on the bus that never came.
The woman knitted my arms and legs into a sweater for the morning lost to waiting in line. She knitted my eyelashes into a pocket full of lost bus tokens.
We are all lost, she whispered.
Some of us wait in line all our lives
to figure it out.
published in Iceberg's Poetry
Comments