FICTION FRIDAY
dust motes
dust motes in the air are the ghosts of the past me/and the previous you/collected in the mattress and under the bed/along the front of the tv unit and drifting into corners of the dining room/a thousand million fragments of a fractured carapace/we discard and slough off/though with every glass of water/we wash the soil of our souls/and hope to produce a crop of something from the compost heap/but it’s usually cherry tomatoes/those little balls of poison/one day we decide the drive thru/is the metaphor of our existence/from birth in ordering our food/to death with the pick up at the window/and it’s the waiting in between that is life/where anticipation is a greater amplitude of want/then we eat our meal/in the carpark of the local oval/so we can hide from the kids for ten minutes
A Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt 
Adam – your dust motes has a touch of Les Murray about it — turning dust, compost, and even the drive-thru into a kind of backyard cosmology. It’s funny, a bit biting, and somehow manages to make hiding in the carpark with takeaway feel almost profound.
Not bad for a windy Friday!