...if you want to destroy my sweater/ hold this thread as I walk away/ watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked....
I lift, squeeze, stroke. I caress. I fondle. I brush, handle, rub, embrace, finger. Everything. Including items people are wearing, and live creatures. No one stares, or if they do, they smile.
The sun and wind take turns sliding over my skin. Dust makes tiny clouds around sneakers, sandals, boots and Birkies. Conversation is muted. Music in the paths is unamplified and folky. No blaring lights or neon colors assault my eyes.
I am crowded among sheep and wool hippies: handcrafts to look at, furry animals to admire, fresh cooked meats to sniff and skein after skein after skein of lovely, touchable homespun. Alpaca roving, hats, angora wool, shawls, pincushions, felted bags, mittens, sheepskin slippers, rabbit fur toys, lanolin lotion.
I have purchased no yarn, no needles, no wool-bearing livestock. Admission was free. My senses are satiated.
Until tomorrow, anyway.
(Undone- the Sweater Song; Weezer)