A STITCH IN TIME

Memory passes through
the eye of the needle.

I purse my lips
coat the thread with spit.

One eye closed.
One eye open.

Pass it like a baton
to my mother

sewing on
a loose button.

The needle
a little silver fish

dashes in and out
a frayed shirt cuff/

I walk down a street
in New York

as memory
whisks me back

to an Irish kitchen
a kettle whistling

and my mother cursing
"Ahhh son can you thread that for me!"