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 