For a twenty minute portion
of each day I tend
to my mortality,
removing the print of dust
from furniture & glass,
gently brushing
the small mass of a cobweb
away from the ceiling
as if it were
a clump of hair loose
on the scalp
of a cancer patient.
I recognize the grungy
dust balls that waltz
ahead of my hands
across the wooden floors
as tiny messengers
of the hereafter: One day
the flimsy remnant
of my ashen shape will rest
on the matter of this world,
briefly gathered in one place
before someone’s breath
will blow it away.
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