It starts out small
A fleck here and there
Drifting upon your dark sweater…

Then, one day you take a comb
Run it sensuously through your hair
Enjoying the silky, smooth, clean feeling…

SNOW??

Remarkable, it seems, until you realize
It is DUST.

Flakes…
Pieces of your scalp
That fall not only on your shoulders
But, into the lap of your lover
And, to your great horror…
Your dinner plate.

There is no conclusion
I offer no cure…
For I have yet to find one for myself!

December 22, 1988

Tags: Poetry

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