Tapestry: My Least Favorite Word in Poetry

Dear poet, please come get your tapestry, Tacked across the window—it hangs askew. My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see. The reds all clash—they’re far from harmony, But hey, it fills the space and hides the view. Dear poet, please come get your tapestry, Its threadbare pattern does not speak to me; Much too common, and maybe that’s your clue— My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see. It’s not a work of art, and nothing’s free From dust or frays. (Did I just spy some glue?) Dear poet, please come get your tapestry, And now I wonder why you let it be The thing that guests first spot when they walk through. My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see. It stabs my eyes, though I am rarely pleased, A story’s just a string from old to new. Dear poet, please come get your tapestry, My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.