There’s a rock in the middle of the road.
I saw it when I opened the curtains as the day dawned.
A big rock in the middle of the road.
The rock is familiar and reminds
me of the one that nestled in the grass beside the end of our drive,
that I see now is gone
leaving a curved smear of mud on the street behind.
How did my rock get in the middle of the road?
If it wasn’t raining I would go outside and get my rock out of
the middle of the road.
But raining it is.
It’s a boulder really.
I’ve tried to move it before
when a wayward truck bumped it out of place
– a few inches at most-
never to the middle of the road.
It wouldn’t budge.
I fear my neighbor might run over it.
It’s my rock. That I’ll admit.
And there’s evidence in the grass
by the end of the drive
to prove it.
But I didn’t put it in the middle of the road.
What am I going to do about the rock in the middle of the road?
It lies there without concern or regard.
Right in the middle of the road.
Perhaps it is having the time of its life on this little jaunt,
No longer stuck by the end of the drive.
Did a truck push you all the way out there? I want to ask.
Did you glide away in a torrential downpour?
Did a giant bird’s talons carry you away under the dark of night
with a full moon bright in the sky?
How did you get where you are?
And how long do you plan to stay?