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 said, 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.

Pieces of me hitch a ride in your pocket,

Sneaking in as you quickly get dressed.

Like today, on this most busy of days.

Not the worst (but well-rehearsed),

And not the best.”

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