She kicked a rock on the way home.
It was a small rock
A reddish, ruddy color was splotched across gray
Like a character’s blush on the pages of a dry book
A little bit battered
Like maybe it had been kicked before…

Well, SHE sure had
She had been kicked around all day
And it crossed her mind,
As she kicked this lovely little beat-up rock,
That maybe it knew what she felt like.

(In, you know, a metaphorical way.
She ain’t crazy)

She was thinking about time,
walking home and kicking that rock.
Seemed a most felicitous thing
didn’t seem right that she could still be bored
When it rushed on so.
Not even time to finish a stupid poem
she was trying to write-
Put the pizza in the oven, Mother said
Brother has football practice
So she silently cursed football.

(In, you know, a metaphorical way.
She ain’t crazy, mostly)

As she walked home,
kicking that rock,
she occasionally tripped on her own feet.
She took it out on the rock, kicking it harder,
but almost always regretted it
So much that she carried it a block in her own two hands,
cupping them at looking down at it.

(But not it, you know, a weird way.
She ain’t crazy, usually)

It looked much more rough
there in her own two hands
Then it did down on the pavement,
tumbling and skipping and skidding.
Battered and banged-up and scarred-
Like me, she thought, somehow pleased by the thought.
Looking down at her legs, they were not perfect volleyball-player legs.
Bug bites
Footsie fights
And right there, below her knee, a long scratch from a canoe.
It was a big canoe, and not really her fault-
but it was nice to know that there were other imperfect things, too
So she smiled at that little rock as she tossed it back down to the ground to kick.

(But not in, you know, a strange, smiling-at-random-neighbor’s-garden-rocks way.
She ain’t crazy, sometimes)

The rock had troubles sometimes.
It would miss a step
Land in the grass
tumble haphazardly to the right or left
and she would have to go out of her way to get it.
But really,
she didn’t mind
just like she didn’t mind doing dreamboat boy’s sewing projects-
it was all an act-
and she looked up and saw that she was home.

(But not in, you know, a surprised, I-was-hoping-I’d-find-my-house-someday way.
She ain’t crazy, occasionally)

She looked at that rock for a while.
Somehow, it seemed much more important now,
with the prospect of leaving ahead.
And it looked forlorn, that little rock, all alone in that big, big world.
So she picked it up and brought it in
to the warmth,
the sound of voices,
the smell of pizza.
And she gave it a little squeeze
like a rock-sized hug.

(In, you know, a figure-of-speech way.
She ain’t crazy, in front of her friends)

And she finished her poem, printed a copy,
and slid it underneath the rock
which was sitting on her nightstand.
It looked somehow right there,
not quite sure what to do with its words,
but proud of them in a way.
Just like me, she thought, and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

(In, you know, a mad-old-poet kind of way.
She is crazy)