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Dust Bunnies
April 27, 2011
I can see dust bunnies,
scuttling beneath the rug.
Uneven lumps invite ripples,
faint, but ever present,
like the many dimples
on the surface of a tepid pond.
Lapping at the soles of my shoes,
the fabric swells and churns,
grasping at my ankles
with course, icy fingers.
Panic.
I flail and stamp down with my heels
until it is still. Dead. Flat.
White coats rush towards me,
I feel a fire in my throat,
and I notice
that I am screaming.
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