Argyle sweaters fit much better made upon a loom with 
yarn and string. The pendulum swings in a grayish office 
room. Watch this lever rise then sever the fabric on its 
way. Notes were taken, some mistaken, but it is underway. 
Some process points, the older men chose not to teach the 
new. Morning lull, it grates her skull. There's nothing 
on the line. All the dormers want legwarmers. Business is 
doing fine. It's a shame the boss is one who tosses the 
scraps out in the trash  in the rain  and no one's in for 
his racist folklore. He's speaking for himself and maybe 
for his country, and the loomists plug their ears and try 
their best to do their job. Tracy's done November 1st. 
She put in her two weeks'. Boss won't let up. She is fed 
up every time he speaks. She penned a letter meant to 
sever the fabric on its way, but none were listening, 
their eyes glistening, teary, on their way to a pension 
they'll receive some thirty years on down the line.