⭐THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem VIII
The dust didn’t settle today.
It stayed suspended in the strip of light,
a slow, indifferent workforce
waiting for instructions
no one planned to give.
It didn’t sparkle.
It didn’t perform the poetic choreography
of a sunbeam in an old film.
It just drifted,
unmotivated,
barely committed to gravity.
When I walked past,
it didn’t scatter in a panic.
It shifted
with the enthusiasm
of an underpaid clerk
moving one folder to the left.
By afternoon,
the air ran out of momentum.
The workforce finally clocked out,
landing softly on the TV screen,
the bookshelf,
and the unwashed coffee mug from Tuesday.
It didn’t ask for a cloth.
It didn’t claim the room as a tragedy.
It just laid down a flat, grey matte finish
over everything I owned,
as if to remind me
that the world looks better
when it stops trying to shine.