Search Website
Close Search Pane
Toggle Menu

Fluff

Milling about the city's nightlife,

she threads through the quilted crowd

who rug themselves up, flattering

each others' leathers and wispy flair.

She stands on the fringe like a lost

strand of hair listening to the needles,

the knit-knot words, the pinning-up of

phrases - cottoning on to their lingo.

She's ready to be brushed aside

when some guy's quip poufs her up

like a pillow, and she responds by

chewing a ball of fluff because, for

some fuzzy reason, she wants his hide.

She sews what's left of her heart to

her sleeve - a threadbare cliché that

his sharp, quiff-like puns pierce like

a pin-cushion - but with conversation

wearing thin and his hand reaching for

her velvet, she remembers the lint

piling up in the corners of her

apartment; the frayed curtains she's

never closed on her view of the city.

She can see it now from her bedroom

window: the silhouetted skyline, a

tattered hem; the stars, little white

cross-stitches forming a sky of blind

eyes; and rolling over the buildings,

the moon, a silver ball of wool,

unravelling.

 

Go to Toby Fitch's profile to read more poems