Things that mystify me this morning:
clouds that brag of stubbornly stuck rain,
suggestions of an activity that
they then don’t want to participate in,
you.

Yes, you. At every chance you
leave me out in the cold,
procrastinate and passively aggress
your coexistence with mine.

Yet, you expect me to cut the threads
on every stitch that’s holding me together
to meet your needs, to cover you,
when I’ve barely enough warmth myself.

It’s all right. I know that you don’t know
how to sew, but really? Pick up a needle,
read a manual, buy some cloth, and
weave your threads into another blanket.
Mine’s taken.