Peddler

The man vending needles at our door Was lucky to greet you. He looked poor but you acted needle-poor Where I’d have said, I don’t need ... He sells needles to prick your heart And they’ll take small bites Out of my finger in a layer of skin Where my feelings are thin. The old thread knitting together his many wools Might last another trudge To our porch: he came last year but I Refused and barely looked him in the eye. I’ve lost how many needles since then? Besides he is mute And would see how dumb we are to buy Three hundred needles for relief. But he supplied us to the end of life. I’ll give away some. And you might never use these points That push through cloth, cut to be made one.