Argyle sweaters fit much better made upon a loom with
yarn and string. The pendulum swings in a grayish office
room. Watch this lever rise then sever the fabric on its
way. Notes were taken, some mistaken, but it is underway.
Some process points, the older men chose not to teach the
new. Morning lull, it grates her skull. There's nothing
on the line. All the dormers want legwarmers. Business is
doing fine. It's a shame the boss is one who tosses the
scraps out in the trash in the rain and no one's in for
his racist folklore. He's speaking for himself and maybe
for his country, and the loomists plug their ears and try
their best to do their job. Tracy's done November 1st.
She put in her two weeks'. Boss won't let up. She is fed
up every time he speaks. She penned a letter meant to
sever the fabric on its way, but none were listening,
their eyes glistening, teary, on their way to a pension
they'll receive some thirty years on down the line.