Dust Kingdom's Heir

Under the bed skirt,

the world collects itself.

I pulled the frame out,

sweat on my forehead,

to face the gray,

felted plains.

And there it was,

a small, green, plastic thing.

One piece of a puzzle,

warped a bit, faded,

half-buried in a lint drift.

Not mine.

Belonged to a forgotten afternoon,

a child's brief attention,

that bright, lost green.

Just another quiet failure

of keeping things together,

waiting for the vacuum's roar

to swallow it whole.