Dust Might

Across the envelope
          and your always unrolled
          roll-top desk
is a layer of dust
like fallen snow.

Time to dust!

you refrained
Sunday through Thursday

but your daily
lyrical antics changed:

first day
     the bookshelf
     your dog-eared,
     unglued, loose binding
     poetry books;

second day
     your hand-me-down stereo
     and cobbled together speakers
     from yard sales and swap meets;

third day
     each nook on your nook shelf
     second-hand game board pieces
     and knick knacks your niece gave up
     when she was “too cool for school;”

fourth day
     the dresser,
     the bureau,
     the armoire,
     and the two shelves
     in your two closets;

fifth day
     countertops and underneath
     microwave/toaster/coffee maker

     yes you can dust the kitchen,
     dead skin sells fall here too.


At the weekend's onset,
          before we drove to Madison
          for various fundraisers, lectures,
          and the one poetry reading
          where you didn’t want me
          reading the poem about your
          freckle constellation
the letter and desk gained another layer
matching the fine white dust outside.


Like a laid bare construction sign
     where the stickman shovels nondescript stuff
     buried beneath the microscopic macro collection
     of flakes

your doctor’s letterhead became faded.