Random Acts of Poetry

Under the Bed

A whisker twitches
as the dust mop swishes
and stirs the air under the bed.

In the corner they gather
by the lost antimacassar
holding onto its unraveling threads.

“It’s not the Hoover,
there’s time to maneuver”
the dust bunny leader said.

He was collecting the crew
with plans for a coup
when the mop dragged off part of his head.

Then the next big push
blew off part of his tush
no more a bunny, just a dust ball instead.

The mop blazed a trail
through the cottontails,
those left were filled with dread.

They panicked and ran
right towards the dust pan,
and got swept up at the edge of the bed.

But still the dust gathers
by the lost antimacassar,
where the next dust bunny army is bred.


Written for "PromptMaster !" 

Prize Prompt:
The most nefarious thing dust bunnies are likely to plot.