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Pebble



You sit on the ground
beside a pile of superfluous pebbles.
You take one, rub its smooth shape
on the nape of your neck,
then drop it down the back of your shirt,
feeling it slide down your spine
and fall out at the bottom.
You are the moon.
You are a moon,
a moon of Neptune.
You thought you couldn't possibly get any colder—
you were wrong.
Pebble.
Pebble.
Pebble.
If only it would start to rain—
it doesn't.
If only you could—
you can't.
Pebble.
Pebble.
Pebble.
You remember something someone said
to you twenty years ago.
Why that?
Why now?
What possible difference—
You are a rock
pushed off a cliff into the sea.
You are not even the rock—
you are the splash.
Pebble.
Pebble.
Pebble.
You subside,
you cease,
and wait for the next moment.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.