Dust Man

He lives in a container cupboard, strapped
to the wall next to a bag of wooden pegs.

Without arms he cannot piss, without piss
he cannot arm himself, so lunges instead

head first - a motorised siren at war with
the furniture, abandoning men, their feet

lifting as he snaps at toes tickled by
dust. Dust settles in his paper lungs

like ringworm and his paper lungs are
farmed and transported in aircraft carriers

to vast dust settlements wedged in the
windpipe of mankind. Children tug at his

umbilical cord like sailors drawing flex
tight as whip-lash. Mother-manouverings

guide him beneath the television
towards hardened soup and daily bread -

fuel for the dust man's bronchial
drone. In another life he was a

mustachioed despot grinding man
bone to dust - every last breath squeezed

out of the carpet.