Think of it!
the salesman said
shaking his head
at our ancient mattress.
All those dead skin cells,
sweat, oil and worse
millions of dust mites.
This well-groomed man
must not know
he’s part of the biome
with mites in his lashes
that come out at night
and mate in his pores
but earn their keep
by cleaning his face.
He has trillions of creatures
alive in his gut
sharing the work of
digestion, protection
production of hormones
and vitamins.
I don’t know what to make
of all this—
his off-putting pitch
to rid myself
of my comfortable bed
or the reminder that
as Whitman said,
I contain multitudes.
That night, eyes closed
lashes astir
I drift into sleep with two questions:
Which of these creatures is me?
And do they approve
of how I’m living our life?