On a Day When Rocks Can Think

When the clouds invented music,

They warned us

It was going to be this way,

But we refused to

Listen. That boulder

Over there, for example, wept

When it heard

Its first harpsichord

On a winter night. Also,

There was that evening

In a small Virginia town,

Populated with banjos

And the beat-up violins everyone

Referred to as fiddles.

It was rustic, and

Momentous, I suppose,

When that very same rock

Wept again, as Elvis

Sang something laced with

That treacherous teenage

Cologne. The rock continued

Having emotional upheavals,

Wondering why

It was the only thing

On the planet that cared,

Truly cared, about any of this:

The devastation of all

The good notes; the pattern

Of destruction everywhere.

There was nothing left

Worth listening to, after

All these years, and the rock

Had heard it all. The clouds

That had thrown down

That first note for the world

To dance to, smiled,

As this simple stone, this

Unfeeling piece of hard ground,

Lay there weeping

That no one, in their right mind

Or otherwise, appreciated

Tailor-made suits, or

Close shaves, or the idea

Of pain placed next to

The blackness of an old piano.