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.