The morning broke
Harsh as bitter coffee
Light falling too brightly
Across the sticky counters
 
The morning broke
Like used up eggs
Hard shells reduced
To fragile shards
 
The roaches retreated
Waving their antennas
To signal their defeat
 
The people rushed to their cars
Carting backpacks
And overdue papers
 
The mice stayed behind
Feasting on coffee grounds
And leftover smears of jelly

The crab crawls across the beach, sand flicking away from his twisted legs in little furrows. The crab’s eye stalks wave towards the sky, searching for the shadow that brings silent wing-borne death. All that whispers from the air today is wind. Maybe, he thinks, the wind will bring a genie. Wishes will be granted, children will fly, and men will turn invisible. The crab skitters sideways to avoid the remains of a large shell. The crab wishes that his shell was hard as diamonds and that it emitted a seagull thwarting scent. The shell wishes that it still rested under the sea, where the surroundings were cool and no one picked it up and set it to molder on a shelf. What about the genie? Does it get a wish? The genie just wants to dissolve into the wind and float around the world in a vague, disparate, cloud, untroubled by the desires of man or crab or shell.

When the mirror broke, the pieces scattered across the living room floor like lethal confetti. Slivers glittered in the light. Images flickered, disconnected and startling. The frame slumped against the wall, its black wood dull without the distraction of reflection. The paper in its center had a splotch of mold shaped like the face of a bearded man.

The guests stared at the shattered disaster. No one moved to clear it up. The shards taunted them with their knife sharp edges, eyeing soft finger with greedy lips. Come on, they seemed to crow, sweep me up.
I dare you.

Outside the window, the owl sang softly to the mouse, hoping to lure her out into the night. The mouse laughed to herself, hunkering down under a mossy rock and watching the clouds drift across the moon. She chewed on one tiny nail.  She groomed the tip of her tail, the soft bit where a few silver hairs grew. The owl tried a different tune. The mouse grew bored. She wondered, if she ran very fast, could she make it to the blackberry bush across the way? Her little hear pitted and patted. Her whiskers twitched.  The owl paused its song and the mouse stuck her nose out and sniffed.

It is hot. The sun burns through the sky, not a shred of cloud to block its sizzling rays. Of course all I can do is sit here.  That how it is for rocks. No legs, no hands, hell, not even a fin or a sail. Nope, not for a rock. You’ve heard the phrases, you’ve problem said them: dumb as a box of rocks, solid like a rock, stone cold dead. Who wants to be dumb, solid, and dead?  Not me. 

Not that anyone asked.  They never do.

At least last week I was in the grass. That was OK. Cooler, anyway, though kind of scratchy. Then some half-brained kid picks me up – no reason, mind you – and hurls me towards a stop sign. Clang.  Yeah, funny. I’m pretty sure I left a dent. I’m probably smeared with red paint, too, though I’ll never know.  No eyes, remember?  So now I’m stuck here, in the dirt, next to a road, with no cover at all and the sun beating down and every once in a while a car hurtles past, wheels inches from me, washed in exhaust. It’s only a matter of time before someone veers over just a hair and then… wham.  Cars are heavy. Trucks are worse. Trust me, I know.  You think I was always this small?  This smooth? I used to be big, edgy, sharp.  I used to tower over people. I used to intimidate. Now I’m just a hunk of granite, hand sized, easy to throw.  Easily abandoned on the side of the road.

If I weren’t I rock, I would scream.