Dust Bunny Archive

Changing the sheets,

the mattress drags,

a dull thud

from the floorboards.

The dog, nose down,

sniffs the dark.

He’s a better archeologist

than me.

An old box, flattened,

cardboard corners soft

with years of dust.

Yellowed packing tape,

still holding.

I pull it out.

It’s lighter than it looks.

Something from when I was ten,

a plastic soldier missing an arm,

marbles, a cracked whistle.

Little ghosts of boredom,

little treasures,

forgotten until

the dog decided to dig.