Some days everything I touch, I drop
onto a floor that’s not been mopped in weeks.
The words that yesterday flowed free today are stopped.
And I want to stop too, myself, and sleep.
This poem is the crust, these words I utter
The last scraping from the jar of peanut butter.
I see them slip, I try to catch, I miss them.
A bit of dirt is good for the immune system.