The Collected Dust, or, The Sticky Map

Just one cat hair, a stray white thread,

upon my sweater, black as night.

So I reached for it, to make things right,

a roller, spinning 'round, instead

Of heading out, I paused to press

the sticky sheet, a gentle glide.

And watched the tiny bits confide

themselves to it, a mottled mess.

Gray fuzz and dust, a hundred strands,

each one a microscopic, little fault.

A landscape, stopped in sticky halt,

drawn by my own two careful hands.

I peeled it off, a ghostly map,

of all the tiny things we shed.

And even with the floor unswept,

I felt a little less mis-fed

by imperfection, in that trap.