A few soft knots
in the nubby texture—
my tongue slides around

curling, probing,
kneading, mashing them
flat.

I embrace the imperfection,
like a Persian rug maker
who sees only God as flawless.

I love the smooth
sameness studded
with surprise, like a pocket

in an old coat—inside
is a ticket stub from a concert
you thought you’d never forget.

Pam Lewis is the offspring of an English teacher and an unrepentant punster. She hopes it shows. She enjoys words, especially kerfuffle and ratatouille. Her poems have appeared in Poetry East, Light, and Journal of Humanistic Mathematics among others. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.