I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end

​
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
​

I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
​

ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
​

fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
​

I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
​

than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield