On Houseguests and Crochet

You come to meditation by thread
and hook, shutting as many doors
as you can between smiling
frustration and the rise and rise
of voices—smoke-deaf, she tends to loud
and knows something
of everything—used to solitude
you now crave it like drink
stealing sips in any dark corner
stitching round and round
because you can
use another pair of socks
and it’s too early for bed