My Boulder

I come home from a busy day,

Not at all the worst,

Not the best.

I open the door of my little room,

To be met by someone I detest.

Dirty, and heavy and cracking the floor,

My boulder looks me dead in the eye.

He waves to me, with a knowing look

As I put down my bags and sigh.

“You know what I’m here for,”

He says without feeling,

And I lay down as if to rest.

He stands up with struggle,

Then climbs up the bed,

And sits comfortably on my chest.

“I haven’t seen you much lately,”

I say through my teeth,

My ribs shaking under his weight.

“If you’re here for the big stuff,

Then I am afraid that you have, for once, arrived late.”

“The date needn’t matter,” he says, leaning back

On my lungs as a comfortable guest.

“I can come visit you any time, date, or place!

You could be crushed by me or just caressed.

Like days such as now, when you stand with furrowed brow

Not the worst of days, not the best.”