Dust floats invisibly through the house, captive, undesired.

The coolness of the attic as unfriendly as the disdain of the moon,

 as he furrows his brow.

 

Through the air he travels,

Surfing the gusts of wind that carry him

From home to home.

 

Dust waits on the doorknob

To find a friend.

 

He dances towards the objects he finds in the path of life.

Opening his old gray lips to tell of what he hath seen.

 

Resting on a clock, counting the time

Until he again must move.

Brightening the parlor table with subdued dew.

 

They rest their gavel against his skin

Weighting their judgement

With the air’s aiding blows.

 

Where is the end of Dust’s wandering,

Where is the end of his lonely life,

On folds of paper bound on a shelf  

Or lying in my pockets?

 

I swipe him from the surface

Of a streaked mirror pane

And stare inside

To see dust reflected in my own eyes.