Demon Dust

Unseen and unsmelt,
unheard and unfelt,
demon dust in the air
stalks, ambushes, even slays.

Not calm fog nor soothing cloud,
this harsh aspergillum sprinkles
danger particles. And no libation
can protect family at home.

Twilight to twilight, dark still
to dark yet again, poll workers
sit and stand all damned day
while (maybe toxic) spittle drifts.

When the “Polls are closed” call peels,
the crew hies home to clean, stripping,
washing clothes and bodies in hot water,
scrubbing hair, skin, selves, sins.

Soft sighs, quick, pious prayer,
and vigorous shower and shampoo
may drive away dangers of others,
of their laughs, breath, and shouts.

There All Day

Hunched, squat, stoop shouldered,
our attendants work all day for us,
from the waist up, arms in service.

Clerks at post offices and grocers
(they with counterpart baggers),
barbers too, willingly cater to us.

Each and all meet quotidian needs.
Though human, they are tabletop,
our salt-and-pepper shaker sets.

All but the youngest seem slow.
We know barbers are sloth-like and
grocery clerks carefully pace shifts.

Those standing and shuffling all day
seem languid and lackadaisical,
not catching our contagious urgency.

That is the biz cliché — hair on fire.
Clerks and barbers’ heads never flame.
Nor should those who serve all day.

No piecework bonus will reward
baggers or cashiers for speed.
They work the whole damned day.

Clerks are efficient and, to us, slow.
What is sprinting to marathoners?
Our catalysts do not spark them.

Again, they are at posts all day.
Often shaped like Bufferin bottles,
Measured movers show lethargy,

Waistless clerks with shoulders and
hips the same width, hunch to tasks
at their ever sensible velocities.

For the millions of minions who await,
await your visit and your duties,
there need be no hurry, no hustle.

They wait. They stand and wait.
Their hair is not afire nor need be.
That is good. Burning hair reeks.

Beasts in the dark

Myriads gather in this shadowed cavern,
lit by flickers as from a movie screen,
They sit, stand and jostle all around.
Some are feral and others are benign.

From their choices and proclamations,
some foster evil feelings and thoughts.
Some intend misery for the rest of us.
How do I sort puppies from wolverines?

I cannot take the measure of each, even
the many I know by sight. I am wary
and weary. I need to know who is
toxic or squalid of mind and spirit.

In scant light, squint left, then right,
down rows, ahead, and forfend, behind.
Neither glancing nor listening reveals
for sure which are the local monsters.

Some are fierce, making no apology
for creeping and suddenly leaping.
They would bite and tear at us,
declaring that it is in their nature.

I long to be able to be at peace with
and trust my neighbors in the dark.

Michael Ball scrambled from newspapers through business and technical publications. Born in Oklahoma and raised in rural West Virginia, he became more citified in Manhattan and Boston. One of the Hyde Park Poets, he has moderate success placing poems including in Griffel, Gateway Review, Havik Anthology, SPLASH!, Peregrine Journal, In Parentheses, Spillwords, It’s All About Arts, and Reality Break Press.