As the kitchen swirls
around, and the restaurant packs in
nothing is stable, nothing
is tact. Only commotion.
Although ,one thing seems
to remain calm. No matter
how busy or slow, it never
looses composure.
The spindle. Home and Grave
of all tickets. With its firm base,
piercing tip; The possibilities
never seem to let me be, but
it understands its job.
Stab it. The spindle doesn’t
mind. It stands ready
on a Friday night
rush, the blood will
from his eyes; He should
of tipped me.
Oh the spindle’s demise
in my thoughts (maybe yours).
But for now though, the spindle
and I keep to our own. Until I
loose it, grab it, and use it.
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