Sitting Rock

By: Alex Leali


Sitting in his chair,

the stone observes his surroundings.

The mahogany chair is wet and waterlogged

and the cushions are getting prickly as the

needles of a fir made for christmas.

He watched as the fairy shrimp passed by

without a care in the world.

They walked along the freeway of thick air

traveling from one place to another

and they played their harmonicas

and left their wigs of red, beautiful long hair

and their fingernails, where gold or other

particles would hide until they were dropped

off somewhere else.

The rock looked up to see the bridge of ice

was still in the sky.

It’s not time to go, yet, he told himself

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