Through a Fine-Tooth Comb
I look out the kitchen window
and mutter, I’m done with rain.
Such are my thoughts, as hot water
showers coffee grounds, and I pull
a fine-tooth comb through my hair.
Have faith, I say, as each white follicle
holds miserly against grating abrasion.
My dust is everywhere. Skin dry and
itching, even the air grates. Comes from
switching on the heating — October’s
too early, but my bones are cold and
my thick socks are poxed with holes.
I once had a Russian doll. She had six
of herself nested into her apple-round
belly. Layers, like petals in petals. Roses
in roses. I long for warm sunny yellows,
no shoes, and tall white topiary clouds.
When I look in the mirror, I wonder
about my own archeology. How many
years until I am topsoil and disjointed
bones displayed next to my trowel
that I misplaced a few summers ago.
I smell coffee, and the toaster jumps to
life. Another burnt slice of bread that
needs scraping with a fine-tooth comb.
Written for Visual Verse’s October Theme © Misky 2020