Kathryn Staublin is a writer and English teacher from Indianapolis, Indiana. She encourages her students to write every day, if only for the sake of writing. Her most recent work is forthcoming in Armarolla, Tell-Tale Inklings,and Veil: Journal of Darker Musings.
The Dust Bunny
A single particle rolled into existence
and shifted as the air kicked on inside the house,
and you were born.
You made your home in the cozy dark
under the television set,
so that you could watch us watch you, unseen.
As you grew, the intricate webs of your formation
promised mystery and growth,
so much growth.
Like felt, your fibers knit together,
essence of spider, essence of lint
You are part of us—our hair, our skin,
the gathering dust from the world outside.
You are kin.
And yet, we must wonder, are you alone?
Do the dust mites, parasites, and insects
that weave their way into the cracks of the floor
keep you company when the rest of us
have gone to sleep?
Static electricity, you know it well--
and though you are soft and pliable,
you remain stuck in the dark,
clogging what we cannot see.
Perhaps you are a soot sprite,
but who can say for sure--
your name still suits you.
Curious and cozy, a collection of the living,
always just out of sight.
Crawl back into your hole,
slumber for the winter,
and in the spring, you may come to full form,
and we will meet you, greet you,
for the first--
and perhaps the last--
After the performance he stands at center stage
And he delays in the silence to let the war within him wage
The ghostly echo of many voices reside inside the walls
And the after essence lingers from the lack of curtain calls
Now the shadows hold the outlines of a story brought to life
But the absence of the living leaves a hint of bitter strife
For within the playwright’s mind is a story yet untold
Through the gestures and the tones revealed by many seats unsold
When the stage at first was offered he felt a dream emerge
But when the curtains opened both play and dream diverged
Leaving minutes upon hours sitting in the stage’s hollow
With the afterthought of substance left for sordid thoughts to follow
Now the empty seats before him wait to mock the very page
Of the script he crumpled in his hands when hit by thoughts of rage
Lines as pure as song were botched and motion turned to sin
So he sits upon the stage alone to dream, and dream again.