A single dust mote note

Midnight
At ten thirty
Houseplants die
By dust fair dirty

A room with a view
Of a railroad
A moor
Some way beyond

A radio station
Misplaced
Here a Saturday
On a Thursday

A dial beyond
Way past beyond
My last
Imagination


Would that this warmth
Was as settled
As the mind
That it tries to disturb

This body displaced
Replaced
Each spring
Each autumn

Each winter
Dusted
With a thin fine sprinkle
Of fair-weather soft fallen snow

A room with a view
Back over a fair few years
A mischievous miscalculation
Lost among a past matriculation

A song
Would that
To pluck
A single note

In time, in tune
My only; dare I even say
My only one regret
My missed single dust note mote





This poem is from the collection East of Lincoln Central available now on kindle - click on the text for details