Private Library

The pseudo-comforter,
Stitched by machine to look
Like a handmade textile,

Looked just like a handmade
Textile, the small patches
Of rescued scraps resewn

In echoing patterns.
Thrift. Not manufacture,
Not meant for exhibit,

Only colorful scraps
From worn-out old clothing,
Earlier blankets, ghosts

Of functional textiles
Past, sewn to look pretty.
There was a shelved closet,

Oak, carefully mothballed,
Stacked with neatly folded
Comforters, the result

Of an odd existence
Fond of making blankets
From the cornered remains

Of the more practical
Outfits of former lives,
Closet of comforters.