The Dust Bunnies Hour Poem by Robert Sheridan

Between the dark and the morning
When the night tries to take over
Comes a pause in the cleaning
That is known as The Dust Bunnies Hour.

Silently in the chamber above me
Comes the quiet patter of little lint
The unheard sound of a door unopened
No voices, but rather clumps of gray fluff.

From my bedroom I see in the nightlight
Descending the hall and the stairs
Human and pet hair, dust and dead-skin
Not to mention dust mites and parasites.

Not a whisper, only beggar’s velvet
Yet I know by their felt-like entanglements
They are plotting and planning together
To take the house by surprise.

A sudden rush down the stairs
A sudden raid from under the beds
By all corners left unguarded
They enter my ‘castle’ walls.

They climb up my pants and cling to my clothes
Over my arms and the back of my hair
If I try to escape, they wagon-train surround me
They are now appearing everywhere.

They get in my nose and in-between my toes
Their tiny arms – they ensnare me
Till I think of the robotic ball with the electrostatic sleeve
It rolls under furniture collecting Dust Bunnies.

Do you think, o little grey bandits
Just because you’ve crawled along the hall
Such an old geezer as me
Is not an equal match for your static electricity?

I now have you fast in my robotic ball
And will not let you depart
But put you down into the dust-bin
It’s the circular-file of life for you, I have no heart.

And there you will stay until trash day
Then to the land-fill forever and ever
Till you’re plucked-up by a bird for a nest
And moulder in bird poop, with no escape what-so-ever.


‘2007’