a poem by william krill

The same empty space dust particles that created this here and now empty space madness,
are still floating in my dirty yellow bucket
tangled forever in mop hairs
wrapped soaking in the chemical firmament of this black brown water—
I’m most comfortable in these restrooms, especially when no one else is in here.
I should by now know the particle of the tile grout,
and should know of the little cricket
that lives behind the grey plastic trash can
waist high with crumpled paper towels and discarded underwear—
my mornings of mop meditations and dirt yellow bucket
pardoning off galaxies by request of the earthly floor,
in this I’m known for nothing,
respected for my nothings,
and loved only by the sleeping eye and that little cricket saint.

© 2011, william krill

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