Jenny’s Dust devil
A tale spinner, intent to ensnare my fluff, humoring me, agitating and vexing me, it finally got to Jenny, visibly,
without relief. It was a common, maddened attraction that riled me. It felt like an invasion to her senses when unloaded onto her floors. She’d wipe the powdery earth after sweeping with a tattered remnant. Yet it was still there, hiding.
Hurled and thrown down stairs, tucked in corners in sly cryptic places, languished in door-way crevices of cunning sinister scheme, she scoffed as the poorly concealed presence unfolded each day. It fried her brain, wreaking havoc through recurring sequences, with woven fuzzy image cycles of stunning lasting-stamina, offending and condescending. Jenny simply couldn’t keep up the clean-up pace.
Camouflaged, it boldly pranced through her abode at will like an invader leaving a trail of disgust-dust, making unwelcomed presence in unforeseen places, uninvited. If only Jenny could utter her disdain, her scorn.
Dust bunnies, my foot! Have you no voice?
Cowardly and cunningly, it appear when least expected from gusty skyward wind bursts of cross and upward flows,
to increase Jenny’s instinctive sense of guilt from poor housekeeping. Dishes rattled as she spotted its furry symbol, reposed in unforeseen places, affronting her awareness.
I just swept there.
Deft, jeering silent taunts of stunning, coy, corroded caresses, covert furry physics particles that pestered its presence,
with be-devilled heightened enkindle jarred Jenny’s teetering flask as it spews forth, then abruptly shattered. Scattered.
Stomped, ripped, plugged in and turned on, alas, Jenny hoovered with her Eureka.
Jeri Brown, 2018