Dream

I have this great dream: I’m sitting in my own shop, the shreds of a thrifted t-shirt in my calloused hands. A well-worn sewing machine waits for me on my worktable. A customer comes in to pick up her bridesmaid’s dress. She smiles at the white light and walls covered with the work of local artists. As she pays, she thanks me for making the dress stylistically wearable. The bell dings as she exits and my business partner and good friend emerges from the back room.
“Matt Costa or The Fratellis?” I grin. “I’d go for some Matt.” The clock ticks along with the now whirring sewing machine as I shove the loose fabric under the needle and music fills the room.
I recall: the handmade skirts I fashioned on a whim during weekends in high school. I remember seeing the possibility of every article of clothing I ran my fingers though at my local thrift store. Spending days after school devouring the drama department’s costume closet, I found priceless pieces for each of our shows. Birthday presents became no-brainers. I was, elementally, a creator. The satisfaction that craft gave me drove me to explore and learn more than ever. While not the most organized artist, I had all the basics covered. My scissor corner, the pile of scrap fabric, and the needles embedded in my mattress worked to create the portfolio I wore daily.
The thread snags. I bend over the machine, untangling the line and brushing off accumulated pins. I finish the hem by hand. Rising, I move to the next room. My co-owner is hunched over a silkscreen frame, inking a design celebrating local food onto a soft shirt.
“I’m heading off.”
“Okay, I can lock up.” I barely get a response from my engrossed friend, the shape of the shirt glowing in the dimly lit room. I gather my workbag and shove a pair of nicked scissors and the half finished stuffed pig I started that morning. The patchwork pig settles on the bottom of the bag. I click the door shut and start walking.
I can’t wait to live this dream.

lost

my voice gets lost in your ear
and
sweet words arrive at my doorstep
my hands are waiting for you
they’ve been patient for days
joining at one head taller
and
my voice gets lost in your chest

fill

you make me want to write
you make me was to shut up and just write
you make me want to stop fucking around and
write what i can’t say with my
tired, used up voice.

you make me want to write
a stanza for the cotton you stuffed into my mouth.
a stanza for the tongue that sits, useless in my mouth.
a stanza for all the time i wasted using my mouth.
a stanza for the silence this brings.
you make me write.

one poem,
mute.