I will have to move the bed
now that you’re gone.
Instead of sleep, I fall to the floor,
staring up through the eyes
of the dust bunnies who used to
watch you watch me try to find
the right clothes to wear.
I never noticed there were
so many of them in here,
sneaking about the wooden floors,
hiding in the corners, pretending
not to hear us debate what day to drive
up North, how long I would have
to work that night, who won at darts,
whether or not I cheat at air hockey.
After I move the bed, my dresser
too will have to thrust through
the spies of dust
who know too much.
From there, my vanity will follow.
They’re hard to control,
these calculating dust bunnies.
I catch them into little piles,
but they always escape
to drift back across the floor.