Lap Blanket

Richly marbled lap robes for the elderly.
Long mohair scarves for the homeless.
Soft receiving blankets
for babies of poor, junkie mothers in the Bronx.
So much cold in the world;
so many needs to tend.

All it takes is a hook
And some balls
of yarn.
Oh, yeah, and me:
Someone who cares enough to notice
And takes the time to act.

A pull here, a poke there,
and loop it back again,
Row after row
after row
after row
after row.

Pretty soon a pattern emerges from the intertwined colors
And something beautiful comes
out of the suffering of being ignored and alone.

A neighbor observes that knitting is like masturbating in public.
I shut my eyes; a twisted smile crosses my face.
I hope she doesn’t notice:
It’s no coincidence that the more you ignore me the more I crochet.

I am beginning to understand the Shakers’ creative genius.
All that sexual energy has to come out someplace.
I can turn it into rage, turn it inward:
As you cross my heart
I can stick a needle in my eye
or in my veins
but that seems like a waste.

You can’t show your feelings,
but someone else is the beneficiary of that chill:

I spin a yarn with love,
to keep a stranger warm.

2/28/06