Through a Fine-Tooth Comb

I look out the kitchen window
and mutter, I’m done with rain.

Such are my thoughts, as hot water
showers coffee grounds, and I pull
a fine-tooth comb through my hair.
Have faith, I say, as each white follicle
holds miserly against grating abrasion.

My dust is everywhere. Skin dry and
itching, even the air grates. Comes from
switching on the heating—October’s
too early, but my bones are cold and
my thick socks are poxed with holes.

I once had a Russian doll. She had six
of herself nested into her apple-round
belly. Layers, like petals in petals. Roses
in roses. I long for warm sunny yellows,
no shoes, and tall white topiary clouds.

When I look in the mirror, I wonder
about my own archeology. How many
years until I am topsoil, and disjointed
bones displayed next to my trowel
that I misplaced a few summers ago.

I smell coffee, and the toaster jumps to
life. Another burnt slice of bread that
needs scraping with a fine-tooth comb.