Abused Child
dented rock, long since crushed,
posing as a vertebra for attention,
admiring those
who have spines.
kids want to kick it
because they can;
yet it would thank any touch,
having waited forever—
unable to release but craving rest,
almost insane from watching
the same thing,
like being in a chair too long.
ice and petals
frolick across the calendar,
but none budge that false stare
of something that seems more—
yet hard and crippled,
not like a wheel on a tricycle,
no.
the rock wants moss
to hug it like a blanket
and grow warm.
Chris Crittenden is a quirky hermit living on the edge of Maine. He recently had a poem anthologized by Arsenic Lobster, and was nominated for the Best of the Net Award by The Rose & Thorn.
(author retains copyright)
