name of my name, people of my people
My people pegs give me grief. They’re impossible not to jumble in the bin that keeps them from underfoot. In the bin, they scream for sorting. Their arbitrary spray of primary paint ( Red! Green! Blue! ) vying for attention. A fourth are all and only varnish coated. Well suited for furniture or barriers, they sort easily and tumble themselves out.
But the hue pegs refuse to self-identify. Anonymous in their mosaic communities, I mark moustaches and initials on a few. Names go on bottoms ( or is it their feet? ), which seems fitting as we too have names we wear where others can’t see. But don’t start me on names as tags. A tag’s the name of my name, not my name. And these pegs are the tags of my grief.
