At the Sewing Factory

Rock'n'roll drones unintelligibly
above
the roar of sewing machines.
I sit with others
in collective isolation,
tied by the cords of need to this
albatross 
of my own foolishness.
Rainbows slip through my fingers,
like opportunities lost,
and pull each other into the 
empty bins.
I imagine plump children
wearing these dresses. . .
while my children strut
in other's discards,
please with something "new".
The bin fills and empties, 
fills again.
Khayam whispers from dark corners of my mind
of futility and wine oblivion.
Minutes become meaningless,
hours reckoned by dozens done.
The rainbows change
but stay the same.
In desperation I dream of 
lost love found,
warm comfort,
endless. . .
the binding twists,
snatching away even the fantasy
of happiness.
A snip,
a tug,
the damage is undone
as though it never were.
If only all my mistakes were
as easily mended.