Dust under the bed

by Mark Melnicove

Dust under the bed lies unmoving without complaint.
I have to get on my hands and knees to see it,
the vacuum grumbling for a good feed.
To think dust has been unnoticed during all those dreams
we snored through in which we tacked art on walls,
then ripped those images down because they were not
what we wanted to be remembered for.
Dust has slept alone, underneath us with no desires,
not even to be removed from the dark.
It does not wave goodbye with the sucking hose upon it,
nor does it claim to be the stuff we are made of.