Above All That

I know a boy who's magnetic.
Steely. Has mettle. But he
giggles at rocks. And stones.
Sees the joke of them. In them.

Laughs his head off
when he holds one.

Says you can suck water from a rock.
From a stone, too. That made me
laugh my head off. He says rocks
and stones aren't the same thing.

It’s like toads and frogs.
I refuse to suck either, but

that boy walks in our ankle-deep.
With a shuffle. In what everyone
thought was recyclable. Rubbish.
Recyclable excrement, he calls it.

One person’s garbage
is still a spreading stain.

Plastic. Cups. Bags. Straws. Combs
and curlers. Pens and picture frames.
Window casings. Radios. Watches
that won’t tick and tock any more.

“I’m better than all this,” he said.
The sky sighed, “I’m above all this.”

Above All That

I knew a boy who lived inside his head.
Told himself he was better than those
garden hoses. Flower pots. Flip-flops.
Squeezie tubes and toothbrushes.

Better than wading ankle-deep
in everyone else’s iron red rust.

He climbed a pole one day. Nobody
remembers what that pole was for.
It was just a pole in the middle of
everyone else’s ankle-deep.

He perched there, a vertical stare,
like a trophy. Or a squatter. Nobody
waited for him to climb back down.

“Now I’m above all this,” he said.