for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust
Don’t pity him and he
won’t pity you.
Glen felt adequately compensated for his work, pay no mind.
When sweeping the long boards of the downtown rehearsal studio
one winter afternoon, the
sun mingled sideways with the
sweet smell of sweat still lingering from petite
feet calloused by movements of grace.
Humming to himself (he kept time with the
plumbing, drumming with scalded water), as the hiss of
more mist softened the air, the
score of next Friday’s musical (as
played by Iris, the pianist, his wife who
stayed by his side those many drinking days).
This time of day was his favorite. In retirement, he would
miss this vision of countless particles
swirling in the air, caught by the amber light, whose fingers,
curling over the curved earth, stirred all the frenzied
dust to dust
a poem by troy cady