A Small Poem by Katherine M. Gotthardt

Fruit fly on a slice of thin toast,
hard-to-read font (Times, I think),
a puppy’s eyelash,
the one-inch Buddha on my desk—
we’re operating in small today.

The freckle on my knuckle,
the blanket lint on my pants,
the birds’ distant dialogue,
and politics.
It’s all small.

It’s all in the eye of the beholden:
the crumb, the text, the hair, the silver statue,
the pigment, the bedding,
the sparrows, Congress.
It’s all small.

The willing squint to see,
reach to touch,
strain to hear—
or not to hear.
Maybe they just close their eyes
and keep their hands to themselves.

Not me.
I move in closer.