Stolen from the aria
Of crashing forest waters,
Ripped like a body’s heart;
A-bleeding
A stone.Stories of war shattered
Long since;
Dead hearts wielding
World War II’s disease
Inside.From a trouser pocket
(roaches’ mealy meat)
With a PBA cut-out sked
The stone was taken
From past distant.Journeyed leagues
Countless hours and interminable sunsets.
A grandson
Who watched Power Rangers;
His legacy.Put in carelessly
A faux Bulls shorts pocket,
Rodman, ninety-one
And bet jolen dozens
Lost all
The once-mossy rock along.Left the asphalt byway
To watch Gordon’s Gin,
Left a legacy
Trampled, rolling:
It bounced away.
The stone.
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