She patches her quilt
and plays with herself.
The eye of the needle,
is daintier than the thin red thread
dangling gangly upon the lip of her cup.
She lets the tea steep a little longer,
but not too long.
Not so long that anything cools
more than a few degrees.
She likes how it feels
to scald her inner cheeks.
She patches her quilt, lovingly.
The truest act of penetration, she thinks;
Passing her fingers in, out, above her thighs,
trembling her instrument of design
as she pulls another brightly colored stitch.
This, she thinks, will be her finest decade,
gazing lazily into the cheval glass mirror.
She gets up from where she has been sitting
to fill the teapot again.
This day, she thinks, could go on forever.