Weaver's Apprentice Wanted
When his old feet wore out, a weaver wove himself new feet. He could balance on them. They were sturdy. They had spring. When his legs wore out, this weaver wove himself a new pair of legs. Feet and legs matched well. He received compliments from friends and strangers alike. They were good and sturdy. He did not teeter or topple, and together, woven feet and woven legs, they were long enough, but not too long, long enough so he could reach the ceiling, but not so long that he would bump his head.
When his old arms and hands wore out, because he needed his arms and hands to weave, the weaver could not weave new arms and hands. So he walked around tall and sturdy, asking for an apprentice, a good listener, a quick learner.
Until his mouth wore out. Now he sits and waits like a well-legged heap of laundry, or on good days, like a basket.
Jack Martin's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, Georgia Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Diagram, North American Review, Wisconsin Review, and other journals