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