stillfugue

Dust balls thicker than socks,
hanging desperately, second after second,
their lives beautiful, and I can see,
watching hopelessly, that they
are space and chaos like galaxies,
unaware of those driving motors
of man’s machine, throbbing
away, miserably under-equipped
to fight the heat of an office full
of women who always have
sweaters parked on the back
of these dingy chairs that
are designed to be 21st Century,
but are sorely losing to the
despondency of a place full of people
doing millions of useless tasks in a
proud type of repetitive way.
The dust balls are unique, each
different from the other, each
amazingly fulfilled in its nicely
percolated mission, each only
aware how he is blown this
moment, how his galaxy is shaped
this moment, and each having
no fear of a future, one that
might include death from speed
tunnels of turquoise vacuum cleaners,
but after all there may not be any death,
especially not for dust ball galaxies.