The Stone                                

I find a stone at the beach

that oddly resembles a man,

cut as it was cut,

smoothed as it is smooth.

Accidental man, its cheeks drawn back,

layered cracks where a brain might be,

It looks like a cartoon figure

committing an act of speech.

But there is only the sound of stone

and history having its way.

I show it my own profile,

and it returns the favor.

Its expression rarely changes.

This dark and handsome stone

now sits on my mantelpiece.

It has my own sense of humor,

a modicum of wisdom.

It stares for days at a lottery ticket

I forgot to take to the store.

It gazes at the ceiling,

and wonders about the world.                                                                          

It's making plans for money, power,

and something a bit like sex.

The stone regards me

when I'm not looking.

We regard each other.

But I'm sure it's only stone,

with gashes for an eye,

a fierce mouth where something cleft it.

I know it doesn't regard me

with anything like attention—

attention finer than gold.

It's human in shape only.

Its eye is empty and empty again.

But it's my stone now.

It lives as a stone lives,

with the comforts of a man.