Conveyors of a World of Lumps
Mechanical angels — their big gold wings
flap with every Ave Maria — monitor clicks
and clatters of tiny beads passing through
many hundreds of fingers, misshapen
conveyors of a world of lumps. A girl,
thirteen, spins into tangles necklaces of pink
polymer daisies and pomegranate seeds.
A pinched-face inspector, factory-punched
medals spilling down his green wool shirt,
sits, stilled. For a woman with a beautiful
velveteen ribbon at her throat, the weight
of the prayers shifts with the schematics
of every snow storm.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas