If I sit on the porch and look out on the morning, It is the dust I first see on the window panes, Smudged here and there where my hand has brushed it And speckled where condensation has dried. I could stop here and think about cleaning, About making the moment better next time. Or I might grasp the obvious metaphor And scrub away at my own grimy soul, But I would rather watch the tiny bug Crawling up the…
Jack HickmanJune 30, 2017