RogueAgent

There is dog hair
everywhere. It’s golden and stuck
to the back of my kurta, there’s a wallpaper of it
plastered
to my bedsheet.
It’s in my hair, it’s in my under
-wear, it’s on my butt because
it was on my work chair. I can’t walk two naked steps to the kitchen
without accumulating pads of golden wisps
on my soles. I open a cabinet and fuck
it’s also in the cereal bowls. It’s times like these I’m sure
I live in a pigsty of dog hair, a dark lair that enshrines
a ballistic dog’s hair, letting it toss
layers of it
everywhere.
Sometimes I just feel like picking up the broom and sweeping the floor
out of existence.
I have deployed armies of lint rollers
platoons of dustpans and launched countless
vacuum cleaner raids on each room of this house but
in this temple of shedding, tick filth,
and lice, I
the rebellious janitor general
have accepted defeat and in my defeat I look around myself and defeatedly wonder
if the word “here”
should just be substituted with the word “hair”, if the quality of reference to a general space
that is present in “here” can be transferred to the word
“hair” because
when I look around myself here and then I look a bit farther there, which is also a form of
“here”
if I was standing over there, all I see in every
here and every there
is hair! Really what use is the word “here” if all I am ever pointing to or pointing out or
referring to when I say it is
the god damn
dog hair? These devilish mutts
they’re responsible for the death of a word and I can’t do
anything about it.
I can only look
at the beam of sunlight shooting through the curtain, illuminating a passage of
air itself,
and all my eyes choose to see are the dancing
dog hairs, flimsy twirling uncoordinated little 
ballerinas little
licks of light,
more golden for a second,
before stepping out
to disappear
everywhere.

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