Fringe

They’re loose threads hanging

from the periphery; no cross-threads

anchoring or securing them;

mostly ornamental, usually monochromatic;

no strength in and of themselves;

unable to protect us from sun, wind, or rain;

just dangling there as if no one knows

quite what to do with them.

If they are looped, returning to the main,

they will likely hinder movement 

by catching on sharp corners,

throwing the brakes on everything.

They’re also people, hanging out

on the margins, bearing similar qualities

to their dangling fabric cousins.

Some of them are ostracized by society

simply because they don’t fit

the standard window frame;

others, because they are too afraid

to let their warp be woofed.

Culture would just as soon let them

get caught in the door, ripped away

from the main by a body hell-bent

on uniformity and progress.

What would it take for us to listen

to them, to notice them flapping

in the breeze and hear their stories?

What would it mean to recognize

that their lives are valuable,

that we are all of one garment?

 

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

© 2015 Todd Jenkins