I Make A Decent Potholder

For some, trust is just a  tattered scrap,
a rag, a remnant of tapestry torn from
an old footstool, a moth-eaten bit of
homespun cloth with loose strings on
the verge of unraveling, barely worth
bothering to launder, pin, watch swing
on the breeze, hang limp, a dead thing,
a birdless wing, edges worn feathered.

The swatches I have gathered, these fat
quarters and bright patches, the bottom
halves of  jeans destined for Daisy Duke-
dom have been scrubbed to a sheen
with lye, wiped,  blotted, dipped in dye,
but it's no use. The stains persist. In
certain light, they are quite visible,

and I still can't bring myself to toss them out
convinced I might need them someday. You, tired
of tripping on bins and boxes, suggest a project,
say I ought to get creative, use my imagination,
sort through the scraps, arrange them in patterns
to resemble cathedral windows, picket fences, sew
them together and bind the edges. I make an effort

but my scissors are rusty, my thread weak, pins
and needles make me bleed, and nothing lines up
properly, and still, by some miracle, I manage
to stitch a clumsy crazy quilt, but you see,

the trouble is that everything gets dirty,
and when I run them through the machine,
they always fall apart at the seams.