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.”