The Gap

You check the time and I check the floor,

looking for the handle on the closing door.

I have the word my mother used to say

for the way the dust floats in a yellow ray.

It isn't 'glow' or 'haze' or 'mote',

it’s a softer sound that catches in the throat.

My tongue has to curl to make the 'sh' go thin,

like a summer wind pushing through a screen.