Dead Still


I'm a small gray rock
lying on the dirt
beside a twisted tree
on the edge of a library
parking lot.

I've been here seven years now.
Little excitement.
Occasional pelting of rain.
Weekly gardener with a blower.
Lots of car exhaust.

I hear footsteps every day.
The babbling of humans
calms me. Reminds me
everything is temporary.
I lie and wait for change.





Observation


As I drive home from the high school relieved to leave 
behind those squirrelly in the present, I see you 
walking away from your junior high down familiar 
sidewalk lines. Across a freeway overpass you stop 
midway to gaze at my world, lanes squeezing out of 
sight. I feel comfort knowing your world is separate 
from mine. I've been in yours; it was once mine, a  
dollar-land of convenience store colas and candy, friends 
walking with you on some days. Without effort, I will 
unknowingly welcome you into the adult sphere--once 
you are shelled inside two tons of steel and rubber 
and plastic--you'll be just like me.