A poem born of a quarantined mind.

————

There are some corners, in my house, where the vacuum doesn’t suck

Occasionally I seek them out when chores I cannot shuck.

Within the darkest corner, behind the potted palm,

There is an empire made of dust, the air there still and calm

Where dust motes fall like snow upon the nets of cobweb strings

Imagined doorways leading off to places of dark things

The husks of ancient stink bugs, like amber ghostly knights,

Lean sideways in the stillness, between the darks and lights.

A leaf or two from palm’s green fronds, now curled and brown in death

They float upon a dusty pond, unrippled by wind’s breath.

Who rules this arid, dim lit nook; no sign or post of claim

And yet within this dusty realm lie clues to owner’s name

A long dead fly, wrapped tightly, in a skin of silver thread

A hole beneath the bottom shelf, a tingling sense of dread

There’s movement in the shadows, but no sound from footsteps fall

As silently the hunter heeds a web strand’s well-known call.

Retreating back the way I’d come, around the massive pot,

I left the corner kingdom to its solitary lot

Perhaps there’ll come another day, when my cleaning urge is strong

I’ll move the palm and start to play a corner vacuum song.

By James Geehring

From: United States

Facebook URL: https://facebook.com/jamesgeehring