Surface Dust Poetry

The poetic endeavour Is made up of surface debris Previously it collected in corners And was blown about Sometimes blowing into my face But now I sweep it up Form it into semi neat piles And kick it outwards The kicking is not the best idea I get some blow back from that But those neat piles cheer me up I can't imagine wading through Day after day again Blinkered to the mess No longer just beneath my feet Becoming unwadable When my neat little piles of surface dust Get a passing comment I get a little burst of pride Perhaps that pile can stay neat Out of my way I'll look at it But I won't walk through it any longer