The patch of sky that I see from my window
is clean kitchen towel threadbare with use
faintly smelling of baked bread, flakes of cake.
Dirty tangles of cloud smear my vision
I wipe with the folded edge of the sky
reaching through the emptiness of my room,
powdery on my skin clogging the pores
like clumpy milk powder rolling on the palm
that I shake away. I don’t want to rip a patch
from the sky, have it lie on the floor of my room.
In response to Joanne Merriam’s prompt to write an object poem. I gazed out of my window, then stared hard to write this about the patch of sky.