Pocket Rocks

Sometimes

I walk with rocks

in my pockets for

speeding cars and

other things too

transient to

beat with my

fists.

I try skipping

the stone from

racing Rolls Royce

to

burning BMW

to

tiny, turbulent Toyota,

the rock never discriminating,

but she usually

bounces once then

hits the road or

misses completely,

leaving me just as

I was before;

angry,

weighed down by my aggression,

full of rocks

instead of peace

and love

or calm

and joy.

Before I get back in my building, I empty my pockets by the lobby door, leaving them for the next guy and praying he’ll have better luck.

Flash Issue 12