Dusted

So the warm air coaxes the pollen out of the plants, and I sneeze and ache. The muddleheadedness of waking lasts all day. I keep forgetting things— keys, lists, grocery items. Everyone at the store seemed muddled, too. Even the printers at the check stands were slower than usual. Have the plants learned to invade machines? Will motors sprout vines and our cars be engulfed by tendrils?

Across the street a big dog sits in the bed of a pickup truck and stares at me for a moment, then lies down to sleep. The strange neighborhood he's visiting can't hold his interest. The woodpeckers laugh. They're in on a joke I don't get. Never mind. It must be time for my nap. When the pollen flies, it's always time for my nap.


( Sunday Verse )