When the lights dim
a man holds to solid things.
Even Sisyphus wants his rock
and well-worn hill, the lumps
and bumps to lean against—
pockets of rest rather than
succumb to the quick and easy
new monotony where nothing
ever stays the same.
At the hardware store, I wait
for bent old men to finish
passing medical procedures
over the counter like medals
won in war, lean on canes.
This is where the retired come,
or to the doughnut shop
for gossip, coffee and calories.
I want my rocks and trees.
drycrikjournal 