Infinitesimal,
the grain of dust is a magnet
pulling me toward it
to examine its ridges and imperfections,
as though I, the scientist,
must observe its every edge
through the glaring lens
of a microscope.

With morbid curiosity
I find this molehill to be suddenly
as tall as a mountain
beneath my unforgiving gaze.

Then swiftly,
an ever-shifting expert,
I turn my lab coat in for scrubs –
a medical professional, by rights –
awaiting any nonconformity
with eager scalpel poised.

An instrument of healing,
I think smugly and pronounce in exultation,
“this most minute of inconsistencies
must be removed at once!”

And gloating,
grateful I am not restrained or thus embarrassed,
I turn to face my patient,
yet unwitting
of the rough-hewn beam of cedar
still protruding
from my eye.