Strays

Destiny abhors outliers,
Prefers reversions to the mean,
The muddled central tendencies.

Of course, you feel steered. You are steered,
Like you steer the crumbs and the dust,
The detritus that you sweep up,

Trying to get it all neatly
Into your old metal dustpan
So that you can dispose of it,

So that your bit of floor looks bare.
You wouldn’t consider stray hairs
That float off the top of the pile

To be exceptional, except
Exceptionally annoying.
You don’t like outliers, either,

But some just get away from you.
You sigh, seeing one glint in sun,
Escaped until next cleaning day.