cosmic brooms sweep across the sky

cleaning up dirty stains in the carpet made by no one taking off their shoes

as they track whatever

all across the universe

gathering stardust from afar,

celestial debris from one galaxy to the next,

not a single conscious entity seems to be conscientious enough

to take out their own damn

trash

rather than making a mess of what isn’t theirs

sometimes innocence looks like a fight

that breaks out inside a classroom,

as each kid awkwardly throws their barely developed limbs

around as an expression of friendship, or confusion, or possibly anger,

but then again, what does a nine year old have to be angry about?

before the perfect punch lands

and i end up bleeding from my nose,

a spigot turns on, and i can’t seem to stop the infinite hemorrhaging

Fred Aiken Writing