Dust

Dust

Do you know the meaning of dust?

Real dust. The real McCoy.

You must.

Not the stuff you flick off a toy.

I mean the stuff that I feel now

On every finger

On my hair

On the teacup

Just not on the glass so rare

I wash my hands

With soap, hard and soft

I dip them in oil

Wipe them with cream

From the Dead Sea

Or oozed from some other seam

And still it’s there

On my fingers so bare

You think I don’t care?

I do.

I wiped down the stairs

She wiped the floors

The windows we leave

Till Monty comes

Rolls up her sleeves

And starts to wipe again.

The dust collector is exhausted

It is full

The pans are wiped

But still have dust

It starts again tomorrow

More dust if that were possible

But it’s true

Where is it from?

Where has it been hiding

If I had known

Oh had I only known

Oh what to do

It’s on my shoe

In my eyes

In yours too.

I’m closing my eyes

So should you

                                                      p.t.o.

Real Dust

The dust you see at first

That which I described so succulently

That’s just the initial onslaught

Like a virus

It spreads

Like a lion

It leaves its mark

Like a nagging feeling

You never quite get rid of it

It’s there

On the chair

In your hair

In what you wear

It’s in between

Just behind

All over the top

And even underneath

It’s finer than before

Not like mother’s crockery

Although it got there too

No

In the way you see it

Only when you touch

Anything

The pens on my desk

The wine bottles

The basket of fruit

The fruit

Open the book

And you open dust

Close the book

And it flies to the next place

On the curtain of lace

The beard on my face

It’s still on my hands

Whatever I do

Wash

Wipe

Clasp

Wring

Shake

My hands will never be the same

Will my life ever be the same?

Dust has become my mosquito

Yet mosquitos have parents who perhaps love them

But not dust

I collect glass

I know why

But there are many dust collectors

I don’t know why

Stephen Pohlmann

December 2-3, 2020