Past Time

Who would ever count the water-spots
Dusty rains left on a windowpane?
To what end? Countable but pointless

To count scrupulously. So are we.
Not as poems of tidy words and lines,
Printable skeuomorphic software.

Those would be the pane’s analogies.
It’s the blurry smudges of faint thought
Kicked up from the deluge of language

That are countably not worth counting.
A parent waits for a child’s return
From overnighting at a good friend’s

Sitting behind a dusty window
In a lovely, sunny afternoon,
Purposely not cleaning anything.