Work Text:
Every night, as I sit sewing, stack of face masks slowly growing,
Quilting cotton gently flowing ‘cross the craft mat on my floor,
Some nocturnal moth or beetle with a sound like pounding sleet’ll
Force me to rise from my needle as it beats against my door.
“Go away,” I say, as I turn off the light outside my door.
Quoth concussed bugs “Nevermore.”